


Shield of Stars

by InNoMansLand



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: 10th Walker, Arranged Marriage, Bisexual Female Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Cuddling, Drama, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Identity Issues, Identity Reveal, Rohan culture I made up, Slow Romance, Tenth Walker, Tolkien feminism I guess, very angry character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-20
Updated: 2018-10-18
Packaged: 2019-03-07 05:09:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 38
Words: 120,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13427472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InNoMansLand/pseuds/InNoMansLand
Summary: A runaway and a rogue, Hedda has lived wild, free and alone for fifteen long years. But with the tide turning and darkness coming, she must don an old name, an old title and a life long forgotten to join the company of kings."What of you? Idis… I heard the princess of Rohan was sent away to Gondor, betrothed but never wed. Other men I knew said you were buried in the tombs of Rohan," He said, eyes heavy-lidded, considering her, trying to find the truth in all the tales that were spun surrounding her. There were many about her and plenty about the other names she'd worn.  "What I know of you does not speak of a shieldmaiden."She circled a tall stone plinth, thinking how pretty, how grand these elves were in all their finery. It was a statue more stunning than most in all of Rohan, and all it held was broken shards of an ancient sword. "I'm sure there are many stories, Ranger, but few and fewer are my own."





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'You can be every little thing you want nobody to know  
> And you can try to drown out the street below  
> And you can call it love  
> If you want'
> 
> \- Wilder Mind, Mumford and Sons.

No stranger to sleeping in haylofts and street corners, Hedda was not bothered by the dust in her hair and the mud on her face as she strode into a dank inn west of the Misty Mountains. The town was nothing special, not present on most maps but she'd made fair coin there, and she tossed a few coppers across the bar for ale and stew, glad to spend it on her first good meal in days.

A man, half in his cups sighted her even with her hood up, dirt masking her freckled, fair skin and the reserve of a soldier. He complimented her dour leathers as if she would believe it, having to hide her rolling eyes at his obvious intention with her. She ignored him but he was not perturbed, leaning closer in the din to ask her her name. She gave him nothing but the flash of her smile and a brushed aside her cloak to show them the sword that hung at her hip. When they saw the glint of steel on her, most were wise enough to turn away, this one was no exception, turning back to his drink without another word or look her way. The truth of all things: men did not want their women armed.

Where the likes of Gondor and ancient, elven cities reigned high and esteemed above them all, Rohan remained a place of earth and dust, unwilling or unable to be entirely tamed. Here, forgotten on its border, there had been little effort to pull this insignificant town higher than the dead and dying dust of its streets, but in better parts, the grass grew long and gold, wild horses went unchained, free and stamping the ground beneath their unshod feet. And she loved the land for it. Rohan's yellow planes were too alive to contain every beast and tree that lived free on the land, and here in the hot, trodden town the only thing capable of stopping you was the dust burning your eyes.

Choosing her seat quietly she slipped onto the long wooden benches before the fire, throwing back her hood to reveal a wide smile, showing her teeth to the man in grey waiting for her as she threw down her stew and mug of ale. "I trust you have been making no mischief while you have waited for me," She teased him, spooning her stew into her mouth without care, stomach snarling with hunger, thrilling at the bland meal.

"Here and there," He hummed, voice merry and mysterious, eyes flashing blue as he met her eye. "You have travelled far, my friend, I am glad to see you safe, Hedda," The old man commented casually, pulling his lit pipe to his lips and blowing the unclear image of a horse galloping toward her, a trick she always enjoyed, watching it until it faded into shapeless curls. Her back straightened somewhat, slowing her eating to show some manners to her old friend, some respect for the grey wizard. He reached down a wrinkled hand, laying it on her broad shoulder to look upon her face. "And I did not expect to find you returned home again," the old man mused, sitting beside the quiet woman while she abandoned her meal. She did not answer him a moment, not meeting his eye, still staring at the grain of the table before her.

Here the Rohirrim farmed the land, loved it well, tamed some of its beasts and grew fat and famed. But they knew well enough there were some places men should not go, woods they should not fell and trees they should not name. It was in this land Hedda learned it was better to be wild in the world than tamed and penned the way too many women were. It was from this land that Hedda, barely out of her childhood ran, horse, pack and sword to hand.

"I am only travelling through, Old Man, I've not come to take a home and hearth and husband," She mocked him. "That's not in my stars. But you told me to come, so you must 'ave seen something in them for me." She laid her own hand, calloused and rough upon his wrinkled one, patting his hand with an affection born of long friendship.

"You may be right," he hummed in reply, still being coy as a maiden in a fairy tale with is secrets. "From where have you come, my friend, and where do you mean to go?" He asked, voice filled with a false lightness. Here he pretended to be an old man, an old friend hearing her tales, but she knew once she offered them he would have something better in mind for her.

"Why Gandalf," She said, a smile quirking her lips, taking a long drink of her ale, "Where I've been means little, but you know I look for somethin' more feral than a warm tavern and a soft bed." She said, teeth shining as she smiled, "When our paths cross you 'ave led me to such. Only tell me where next you mean to send me." Her words were the closest to devotion she would allow herself, the closest to obedience she would offer anyone. And only did she offer it because he did not ask for it. Kings and High lords on old thrones would not command her, too many had tried. Only now, with the world stretching before her, her pack light on her back and horse fed and watered would she take his direction.

She took another long drink of her ale until the tankard was done, her meal cold and forgotten. He could ask her to go in an instant and she would make for her horse. Her feet were rarely still, her heart rarely quiet, and her heel tapped the wooden timbers beneath her as if readying herself for his promised adventure. In days passed he'd sent her into dark forests, collecting the venom of giant spiders, high into the mountains to seek old treasures, he offered her quests when she had no contracts to fulfil and enough coin in her pocket. As he spoke, his voice stayed low, attracting no attention from the brash men around them.

"I go now to Minas Tirith, to the steward and his libraries. Though I hope my journey is wasted, and I find my concern unfounded I cannot be certain. Cross the gap of Rohan, Hedda, go north to Imladris and await me there. If what I fear is true, my friend, there will be more danger than even you could hope for." His voice, usually so kind darkened, and it was clear to even a stranger that his fears were more serious than those plaguing some weary traveller. There were the fears of magic, of evil, and the girl could not imagine much else able to frighten the wizard so.

"Rivendell? The elves would not have me there, I have nothing to offer them but a sword they do not need." She sighed, shaking out her hair, Gandalf was often foolish, half-mad and hard to follow, but to have a simple hired sword stride into Elven halls? That was sheer foolishness. Kind as they may be, they would not offer shelter to some rugged stranger for nought.

He shook his head, gesturing for her to follow him outside, away from the rabble and the noise. The warm, dry air was lit with the silver of the moon, and in the dark, his gaze was all the more serious now they need not fear being overheard,

"There assembles a council, Hedda, and I would have you sit upon it, but I regret you must do so falsely." He frowned, the expression carving lines into his wrinkled face and her own mouth soured and turned down. She knew now why he needed her. Perhaps this was the reason he had always truly needed her.

"You want the lady of Rohan upon your council, Gandalf," She spat out, voice a furious hiss. A rage, hot and dark boiled at the pit of her belly, teeth grit hard as she spoke through them. "You mean for me to be titled and simpering, Gandalf. This is not wildness, not  _adventure_  -" Her voice raised and she had to force herself to quiet her voice, lest they be overheard. But when she calmed her words carried no less venom, spitting out the truth like the viper she could have been "this is politics!"

As a child, she had seen the horses, uncaught or untameable, turned loose to the grasses and as a child she had dreamt of running with them. And so the child she had been had run, and the woman she was had not looked back. The woman was free of the bonds that had once chained her, the names and the history that held her. Gandalf stood before her, and the adventure he offered her was a pen and reins. Her voice came louder, taking a few steps from him and hands fisted tightly "Perhaps you mean to sell me off to help your newest cause? Offer the hand of Rohan to any lord that asks?"

"I ask that you take the call for what it could be, Hedda!" His voice rose now, and she bristled, squaring her shoulders and setting his jaw as he chided her. He called her Hedda then, and they both knew it was another lie, but it was a name she had chosen - he was letting her choose again now. "Go to Imladris, sit upon the council and see for yourself what help a daughter of Rohan could offer, I ask nothing more of you than the title you were given and the sword you chose." He said, and true to his word he did not demand this of her. The darkness on his face lifted and instead he looked very old and very sad. Wordless she looked at the planes of his face and wordless she nodded, eyes falling to the ground. She had acted poorly, willing to abandon the world because saving it did not suit her.

"I will go," she said stiffly, trying to beat the scowl from her features, knowing such was not fitting for a lady. She had much work to do to befit that title. She could not offer the grey wizard anything kinder than that, would not thank or pretend with him, he would not believe it.

The noise of the tavern did not hold any appeal now, not in light of the task ahead, and she said her goodbyes to her old friend, trying not to hold onto the anger he'd inspired in her. They parted with less kindness than they'd met, but with more purpose. She went to the stable, brushing down her mare to soothe her temper until she curled up in the hay beside her and slept. The coin in her purse would need to equip her for more than her own enjoyment now, and she'd not waste it on comforts.

Three days she gave herself in the town, sleeping in haylofts each night and enjoying drinks and flirtations with the Rohirrim soldiers and farmers boys by evening, smoke from her pipe sweet in her nose. She thought she deserved it now, taking some freedom and some fun before she shed her dirty leathers and her newest name on the road to Rivendell. By day she bartered silvers and coppers for more respectable riding leathers, quick needlework and a gown befitting the lady she had not been for thirteen long years. By day she bought herself a mask and some respectability.

On the third day as the sun rose before her, the whole world a blaze of golden fire she saw, more clearly than ever before the two paths she could take. Before her lay the path she'd turned from when she was young, gilded, straight and narrow, her sword an ornament with less violence in it than a sewing needle. A life she'd left at thirteen. Behind her lay the thrill she sought, the escape, the flash of swords, a new name and a new life each and every day. But when she looked behind her again her path, winding and wide was burned and shrivelled, her own freedom nothing compared to the fear Gandalf saw for Middle Earth.

She left Hedda wrapped in her stained and soft leathers, buried in her pack and replaced them with grander, hardy wool in red and soft browns, the mark of Rohan stitched upon her collar. She took up her old name. The name she had let die when she'd run on a half-wild mare of Rohan, hooves thundering behind her. Her journey was long and would be hard, the gap of Rohan becoming less safe day by day, so her sword hung by her hip, unhidden. She took the time on her long journey to straighten her back, bending her whole body into the role she'd shaken off.

A queen of Gondor she would not pass for, but a rough spun princess of Rohan they would believe, a shieldmaiden from a wild country they could see in her bearing. When she swept through the gates of Imladris, her horse shining with sweat and dust she presented herself as such, offering the lands and armies of Rohan up as Idis, the daughter of Théoden King.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I read that 'In some earlier drafts of the story, Elfhild, wife of Theoden and mother of Theodred also had a daughter, Idis, before she died, but the girl was soon removed after her character was eclipsed by that of Eowyn' and then this happened. Is also posted on FF.net under all the same titles. Would love feedback, positive or negative x


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I chose to travel as a lonely man_  
>  So much that I lacked, so much that I lacked  
> I'm always wishing I was walking that road  
> It's something I hold, something I hold  
> I take it with me all the places I go  
> How little you know, how little you know 
> 
> Paint - The Paper Kites

She swung her sword hard, teeth bared like an animal and sweat beading on her brow. A pretence of propriety, posture and politics was a difficult mantle to wear after so many years of caring for nothing but herself, her sword and her next venture, and here, alone at last in the training grounds of Rivendell, she shook them off.

Though another rogue sword may have taken to the task of infiltrating a great kingdom and assuming a grand title, she preferred her ventures in dirt and dust. In years past she'd employed herself in the filth of the west to take her fun and make a few coins, delved deep into the poorer parts of large towns where deeds were darker. She had hunted spiders through Mirkwood, robbed a thieves guild at sword point and delved into graves and bogs after lost treasures, but in her wilder years she denied any task that demanded courtly manners. Leave such acts to finer minstrels, she had always thought, her own attempts when she was a child had ever failed her, today even Eorling riding leathers felt too regal for her form. Gandalf had promised her action but she found nothing but dinners and peace here. Kind and welcoming as they were to the princess she was, it made her pace the halls like a caged animal, nerves on edge, this place too still and light.

She had been offered books and tours, feasts and elvish fashions, but all that could sate her anxious mind were the training grounds. When first she'd been left there Hedda had taken to lashing out at a wooden dummy with sword and knife before remembering herself, cursing under her breath  _Idis would not be so unrestrained_. Her actions were a picture of swift efficiency then when there were others to see her, not even able to take her anger out here with her weapons. Anyone who saw her there would know her to be a Shieldmaiden of Rohan, that was the story she had offered them all, and none had denied her it. Not when they saw her sword and heavy round shield, freshly painted with the red horse of her Rohan. Though last she'd seen, the king and all his men had never allowed her a sword of her own. Never allowed her to indulge her interest in weapons and war. A shieldmaiden the elves accepted her, to them a shieldmaiden was an honour, a thorough but empty education of swords that she should never use, the real Shieldmaidens of Rohan were dead and gone. They believed her when she told them she had not seen war.

Perhaps if were Idis still, daughter of a king, sister to a prince, bold and beautiful the way a princess should be, she would have brought back the shieldmaidens of old. What of Éowyn, who had once played stick swords in secret with her? Had she tried to push the king of Rohan for her own lessons? Had she been denied the way Idis had been denied? Pushing away her thoughts she pulled her sword free from the dummy in a volley of splinters. Perhaps as a princess, she would have been strong and beautiful and brave, if she'd stayed behind, if she'd stayed penned in perhaps she would have expanded the circle of her cage, not merely jumped the fences and run. Her thoughts were interrupted and she looked up, wiping sweat from her brow and fluttering her hands girlishly in front of her face as if she were ashamed to be seen so.

The elf, his dark hair held back by a beaten metal circlet stood several paces from her, bowing elegantly and offering his apologies for intruding. "My Lady, guests came in the night, my Lord Elrond bids you meet them at midday in the western courtyard, he means to speak of the council." Her eyes widened, back straightened - at last! Elrond may have called the council, aye, but it was Gandalf doing. It was he who had sent her ahead, these strangers were surely his doing as well.

"Of course," She said, voice hitching slightly as she sheathed her sword and gathered her short knives, slipping them back into her boots. "Send your lord my thanks, I will be with him shortly." Dismissing him she slipped by quickly, darting through the high halls, though she tried to retain some elegance to her clear impatience. It had been long weeks of waiting, and though Imladris was beautiful, a grand kingdom that may well have been grown from the cliffs and waterfalls, elven company and peace were not what she desired. She had spent long years shaking off her vanity, but in the weeks of comfort and beauty she spent here she felt the plain thing she was. She washed and dressed in the only dress she had, soft white wool threaded with regal, scarlet vines upon the neck. A string of beaten bronze medallions belted her waist, a style that she had guessed was still fashionable in the halls of her home. She brushed out her hair without adornment, the wild, yellow-bronze barely grazing her shoulder blades, and not long or beautiful as the dark rivers of any elf that graced these halls. On her belt she hung her dagger, the short, sharp blade wrapped in bronze. Grand and beautiful as it was, it was a part of a broken pair - it's twin hung on the belt of an old and lost friend.

She had spent plenty of long hours scouring the grounds, it's immaculate gardens and courtyards, making maps in her head and easy escape routes, and found herself in the western courtyard before the lord and his strangers. Serving girls set up a delicately carved table, piled with pretty silver goblets flush with red wine and fresh, ripe fruit but she sat away, watching them prepare. She had done such tasks, been a young and hidden hand, a set of downturned eyes, filling tankards and goblets she would never drink. Before she had the skill to take contracts of her own, met rogues like her to train her, she was worth little more than the coppers they paid her. She knew what it was to serve others, and she had been served just as often, and of the two she would rather serve herself.

She was disturbed from her thoughts by a merry voice, excitable and sweet, laughter and heavy footfalls and she stood, brows furrowing upon instinct. This was not the song like words of Sindarin, nor the calm tone of elves speaking the common tongue. When a creature burst through the golden leaves she was at a loss, stepping into the light to see him closer. He was short, below her chest in height, though she knew herself to be tall for a woman. Compared to the carved faces and pallor of elves, he was the sun; his curls a red gold and face pink and sweet, without the serious gaze she'd become used to here. Behind him followed another and another, less boisterous than the first but undoubtedly the same creature, from their delicate curls, pointed ears too large, bare feet covered in soft fur. She had not seen such creatures, but from the way they stopped, wide-eyed and staring, they may well have never seen a lady before. She curtseyed to them, keeping her queries to herself, turning to the dark-haired lord behind them.

"My Lord Elrond," she greeted him, voice measured, "I was glad to hear friends arrived in the night, though I confess I know them not, nor has Gandalf told me of them," She said, voice slow, trying not to offend or demand answer from him, offering the three before her the same courtesy and bobbing delicately.

"Halflings of the Shire, may I present the princess of Rohan, the Lady Idis, who joined us some weeks ago," He announced her formally, and the halflings bowed in sort, though the action was clearly uncommon to them, making her bite back a smirk. "These are Sam, Merry and Pippin, and a friend lies healing in my halls,"

"Frodo'll get better," said one, rounder by far than the other two, Sam, Elrond had named him, and he had a seriousness she had not expected from such a merry-looking creature. "Somethin' evil poisoned his blood, but they say elves are great healers, an' Strider said he'd not survive if he hadn't come ahead with the elf,"

She considered him for a moment, why was he telling her this? What did he want to hear from her that he had not already been told? In her own life, people didn't look to her for comfort or kindness, and she did not give it often. At last she nodded stiffly "that may be so, Master Gamgee, you were lucky to bring your friend here in time, I'm sure he'll awaken soon," she offered lamely, platitudes and empty kindness were not something she knew. She did not like to lie, and she knew nothing of his friend's condition but offered him the hope he wished for.

Elrond bid them sit, and an elloth faded from the trees to pour them sweet, dark wine, never letting a glass empty as they spoke. The hobbits were kind creatures even when they were plainly weary and worried and on another day she would have enjoyed their company, but the topic she had waited for was avoided firmly. The council, the evil Gandalf had alluded to. All this time Elrond had remained quiet, not telling her its meaning, not even speaking of it when she asked, and half of her wondered if the hobbits were there to stop her from demanding an end to his silence. At last she snapped, interrupting Elrond's words detailing his coming friends, elves from Mirkwood, dwarves from the Blue Mountains, men from Gondor, eyes narrowed and arms folded "For the council, one presumes, the one whose date, subject and goal I still do not know, Lord Elrond," She said, the weeks of waiting, her snappish mood clearly leaked into her tone.

The hobbits were taken aback, looking at her with wide eyes and confusion, darting back and forth from the lord to her, awaiting his answer. Did they know of the coucil? Had they been invited to it as well? She merely smiled prettily, though inwardly she cursed herself for her failing manners.  _A princess should not demand, a princess should not snap like a spoiled child_ , she told herself, biting the inside of her cheek. Elrond own eyes were upon her, thin lips quirked in amusement and he stood.

"I apologise, my friends, I have been a poor host to one friend, now I must be a poor host to you as well," he said, calling the elloth back to refill the quiet hobbits goblets. He bid them a goodbye while she followed his example, jumping to her feet and nodding her farewell absently. "Stay, dine, drink my friends. Will you walk with me a way, My Lady?" He asked her, and she nodded, biting the inside of her cheek hard and cursing her impatient tongue as Elrond led her back into the grand halls of his home.

"Forgive me, My Lady, I have awaited news before telling you of the council, now I have all that I need know of the coming days, you should know as well why you have come." He said, leading her beneath the delicately arched ceilings slow, casual pace as if he were merely showing her the glory of his halls, not discussing the darkness coming.

"Gandalf said the same, Lord Elrond, but I would know your concerns, even unfounded." She spoke gently, trying to calm herself from chiding the ancient elf that had willingly given her shelter. "I cannot counsel if I do not know what you fear," She said, her green eyes boring into his with the ferocity of a warrior, and he conceded, seeing something of her strength there.

"The halfling has been here some days, My lady, and with him came an artefact I hoped I should never see again. I call the council to decide what must be done," He explained, still, his knowing voice was frustratingly mysterious, speaking of half-truths and metaphor. She dug her nails hard into her palm to stop herself from snapping again, wishing he would speak plainly. He led them from the light hallways to the gallery she'd already seen, tapestries hung on the walls, statues lining it's walls and stranger still, a man too shadowed to belong in the valley of light.

His words drew the attention of the shadow and he stood, throwing his person into the light. Before her stood a rough man with dark hair, weather-beaten skin and searching eyes, sword heavy at his waist. His was the face of a ranger, his bearing and his clothes speaking of the wild and of the life she had tucked away in her pack, the life she had scrubbed out of her skin. His was a bearing she recognised, one of action, of war. She'd walked with men like him often, she'd longed to make herself as fierce. her eyes traced every inch of him, searching for his story in his skin.

"Strider, who accompanied our halfling friends on their journey from Bree, and who will sit on the council I have called. With him comes the halfling that carries a burden we all must face. The halfling Frodo carries the One Ring with him". At last, there came her answer and even the elf did not disguise his worry from her. The Ring was a night terror, a story to frighten children, but Gandalf and Elrond would not fear a simple tale. They had seen this evil for themselves. She looked at the floor, wordless and unsure, eyes on her supple boots and nodded slowly, reassuring herself more than any other as he continued, trying to take in his words. "With the One Ring in hand, Sauron himself would rise again, and the world we know would end." His dark words made her cheeks colour, and she chided herself for her own, ingrained impatience. With the fate of the world here, in his peaceful house, she demanded answers and spoke aloud his secrets.

"I understand." She swallowed, unable today much more. Elrond was not dark, fearful and angry the way Gandalf had been months ago, but his was a grim resignation. She chose he words carefully, meeting his eye at last. "Forgive me my anger, Elrond, I did not take Gandalf's ravings as seriously as I should have," she admitted, trying to make some light in the cold, quiet room, and she heard the light chuckles of the men before her. "These are dark days ahead, and Rohan will stand with you," She promised him, voice serious as she could appear when she promised them a country she had abandoned, forces she could not muster.

The dark man was quiet, his face watched hers more openly than men did, as if he was reading her every action by the freckles on her skin, the curls in her hair and bruises on her hands. Slowly he stood, inclining his head just slightly in a weak interpretation of a bow. She felt acutely bare before him as if he saw through her plain white dress and the adornments that sat so uncomfortably against her.

When he spoke his voice was a divine, rumbling timbre that spoke of the forest and fights far older than her own. "My Lady," he greeted her, hand over his heart in the elvish way. Strange, she wondered, that a ranger from the North would sit on Elrond's council. She was worth little more as a rogue from the south, with a danger such as this, even a princess of Rohan seemed small in comparison to the days ahead.

"I must return to our hobbit guests my Lady, I trust you have much to deliberate," Elrond's voice broke through her own thoughts and she blinked, bowing her head respectfully as he glided from the room and left them alone. Silence reigned for long moments, she staunchly avoided his gaze, feeling it heavy upon her again until she interrupted his shrouded thoughts. "You have seen the Ring?" she asked him, hands fisted at her sides. She would not pretend to be calm at the mention of such a thing, could not, and it would be strange to appear unaffected.

"I have." He responded, now willing to say much more than that. Rangers were not known for being talkative, she supposed, this was to be expected, but still, the fragile, fearful part of her wanted some reassurance, making her feel as helpless as the halflings in the garden. She was glad she would not get it from him, not today.

"Why does a ranger sit on Elrond's council," She said, the words spilling from her without thought, eyes widening in alarm when she noted he may find her words unkind, thought he did not seem to care. "I mean no disrespect, but why does he trust you? Who  _are_  you?" She took a step closer, meeting him where he stood before a great painting, light and dark personified on canvas, a fallen man and a devilish entity before them both. He was quiet, looking over the painting as if considering his answer, considering who he was as much as she was "I am a friend," He murmured finally before turning those light eyes upon her again. She did not need to answer, merely smiling gently, the words offering her more comfort than any else he might have offered her.

"What of you? Idis… I heard the princess of Rohan was sent away to Gondor, betrothed but never wed. Other men I knew said you were buried in the tombs of Rohan. Word in this city is that you have been abroad these years, an ambassador of trade for your country." He said, eyes heavy-lidded, considering her, trying to find the truth in all the tales that were spun surrounding her. There were many about her and plenty about the other names she'd worn. They were tales from her kin, those she'd left behind- excuses for her absence from the halls of Rohan. "What I know of you does not speak of a shieldmaiden."

His words were carefully said, wiser in his accusation than she and a smile quirked her lips, turning away from the painting, circling the room to avoid his eye. He could see a warrior in her the way she could see it in him. Without a word, without her sword on her back, he knew she was something stronger than most had seen. A dress did little to disguise her from the ranger.

She circled a tall stone plinth, thinking how pretty, how grand these elves were in all their finery. It was a statue more stunning than most in all of Rohan, and all it held was broken shards of an ancient sword. "I'm sure there are many stories, Ranger, but few and fewer are my own."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _I hope you got your things together_  
>  I hope you are quite prepared to die  
> Look's like we're in for nasty weather  
> One eye is taken for an eye. 
> 
>  
> 
> \- Bad Moon Rising, Creedence Clearwater Revival

A flurry of activity overtook the last homely house by the sea and it abated her prowling and snappish boredom significantly. Gandalf came at last, but he was kept busy telling of dark days and meeting with another of his friends, the steadily healing ring bearer. She spent her own hours spent, showing off her skill in the training yard to the new arrivals. Daily she sparred with a new stranger, showing them her strength before anyone could say she had no skill. The Mirkwood elves were often practising their archery there and they had been polite if distant, admiring her skill and telling her of the women in their woods that made up half their guard. The Dwarves she only saw in the yard and the dining hall, drinking and eating to excess. They were loud, practising with less seriousness and she was glad for it, finding their barrel laugh a little infectious even if they did little more than share a cask of ale and a kind word. There was a clear divide between them all, and they spoke only with weapons in hand, discussing their skills and not much else.

It was the men from Gondor she liked far less. She did not greet them primly at the gate when they had arrived, and she learned to duck from the library, the dining hall and the training yard at certain times of day to avoid their leader. The elves may be distant her, the dwarves mistrusting, but the steward's son and guard was something else entirely, and she hoped he would avoid her in kind. Even his men openly misliked her, mocking her in training even after she had beaten them into the dust and shattered the ribs of one.

It was late one evening, the elven songs filling the valley that she'd not the sense to run fast enough. He caught her with a name, coming late from the scroll room and rubbing sleep from her eyes "Idis!" The steward son, a stranger and a brother all in one was before her at last, impossible to evade and he spoke before she could.

"At last," He said, a curious expression on his face, halfway between relief and yet so intertwined with sadness. "I called my men fools when they said you were here - that after all these years you'd appear like the wind."

"A plight such as this one, it's... difficult to ignore. You know why Elrond calls us here?" She said, her eyes on the ground avoid his eye and his expression, hands folded behind her back, gripped tight. When he took a step closer she stepped back sharply, and cursed herself for the foolish action, another chip in her mask for him to pick apart.

"I dreamed terrible things in Gondor. Isildur's Bane, my dream said. Of his sword and coming doom." When she looked up and met his eye he looked wracked by it, and in days long past she would have known how to comfort him for it, to be kind, but now she could not. Now she swallowed down the words on her lips. She did not speak, and it seemed he needed no answer from her, his dark words hanging in the air as he took another step closer, his hands reaching out as if to embrace her. thirteen long years ago she would have accepted it gladly, now she remained still as stone.

"An envoy, Idis? Is this truly where you've been all these years? My father will not believe it, nor will he accept it" He said at last and idly her hand went to the dagger at her side, realising too late how fool the action was when its twin hung upon his own belt. His eyes fell upon it, but his expression was unreadable. "The strife between our lands is stoked by it, only explain, only give reason that I may tell him -"

"Boromir I told you years ago my reasons." She snapped, but he had every right to anger. Her reasons were false and flimsy as the very air around them. "I've not involved myself in our father's strife again, nor will I bargain for our lands. That is not why I have come." She swept away, too fast, unwilling and unable to speak further with the man of Gondor she'd known as hardly more than a child. It would anger him, aye, but she would take his anger and his hatred over his kindness or his hurt.

She was restless to begin, and thankful when the council was ready at last, called in secret and alluded to in murmurs for so many weeks. The hobbit Frodo was still pale but he looked sick no longer, and she smiled at him, trying to be a friend to the one that held the fate of the world in his small, soft hands. She'd learned from the other halflings he couldn't even swing a sword, how was it he had protected the Ring this far? Compared to the beings circling the courtyard, he was delicate and small, easily overlooked.

She fingered the high collar of her tunic distastefully, uncomfortable with the unweathered fabric so close to her skin. She ran the pad of her thumb over the gleaming thread picking out the decorative knots that usually adorned eored armour and the halls of the kings. Her sleeves billowed, pure white and too grand for her tastes, all flair and flounce. She was dressed prettily, of course, but she would not wear her dress for such a meeting - her sword and shield were slung over her back. She may be playing the princess now, but she was pretending to be a shieldmaiden as well. She'd not stand out further as the only woman among them. All the better when the wood elves, the dwarves and the steward's son had half a dozen men beside them to counsel them, and she sat alone. This was simply another battle, one she had to play with fabric.

Her eyes darted from stranger to stranger, the wood elves, dressed in rich silver and pale blue, resplendent and beautiful as they were, they seemed to think themselves above all but Elrond in the circle, not sparing her a glance where she sat quietly. The dwarves were as merry as always they were, joking amongst themselves, seemingly unaffected by the tension in the air. She let her eyes slide over Boromir and turned her eye to the dark stranger, the ranger that had come without a title. He stood alone as well, and this made her frown. To be here she'd taken up an old name, taken on the task of royalty and pretty manners and still the men of Gondor told her she should return home to her husband and her father. It made her want to snap at the dark ranger, who had freedom enough to live in worn leathers so like hers without shame or reprisal. None had told him he had no right to be sitting in council with them, even while he called himself merely 'friend'.

Her thoughts were interrupted when he met her gaze as if he could see her angry thoughts painted on her face. His lips quirked slightly, and her eyes drew over him the way his had once done over her, observing his stature. He looked like no ranger she had known today, she could see that now without the mask of his well-worn leathers and tired eyes. And watching him in days past, walking the halls like a childhood home, elvish words and gesture coming easily to him as manners. He was a contradiction. For the first time, she saw him today dressed more grandly than any ranger, surely a gift of the elves, rich, clean cloth, soft and dark velvet covering him, though he looked as uncomfortable dressed so as she did. Indeed though he suited them well, his face seemed more regal, grander than the rough life it had clearly become accustomed to.

At last Elrond spoke, drawing Strider's eye from her and hers from his and her own thoughts. Elrond stood, clothed in brilliant red finery but his words were dark, and silence reigned over the council in an instant. "Strangers from distant lands, friends of old. You have been summoned here to answer the threat of Mordor. Middle-earth stands on the brink of destruction. None can escape it. You will unite - or you will fall".  _An unlikely thing_ , the girl thought, fingernails digging steadily into her palm. "Each race is bound to this fate... this one doom." She shifted, eyes darting around the circle to see the same discomfort in the eyes of every man there, wondering, calculating. Did they do so in case they need defend to ring or take it for themselves?

"Bring forth the Ring, Frodo" He spoke, voice a gentle demand, and every eye, the eyes of kings and princes, elves, dwarves and men, turned to the sweet, pale young man seated quietly, unarmed and apart from the rest. She pitied him a moment as he stood, took a few steps and laid something down upon a pillar at the centre their party. The attention slid from him in an instant and she could hardly pity him when she could  _feel_  the soft, cold weight of The One Ring leave his fingers. She could head the imperceptible sound it made as it settled on the stone like a siren. How pretty it could look, she thought to herself, upon her finger and her hand around her sword, swinging down every man at this pitiful council and then Sauron himself. The Ring could give her such, the Ring could give her power more than an army, a title or a throne. The Ring could free her from all in life still tried to trap her, even her mind. She shook her head, feeling dazed, nails digging into her palms to ground herself. They had spoken, whispers, awed words from the council she hadn't heard but Boromir could not be ignored. His voice was powerful and he stood from his chair, circling their fraught gathering.

"In a dream…" he spoke, his voice rough, his eyes intent upon the delicate gold circle. Hedda felt a spike deep within inside her, possessive and sharp.  _As if such a man dared look upon her ring - how ugly it would look on his meaty fingers, how little he could wield such_ power _._  He'd destroy half of Middle Earth and let the rest rot, that was all the Stewards of Gondor wanted, war and power while they sat safe and warm in their towers. "I saw the Eastern sky grow dark… In the West, a pale light lingered. A voice was crying, your doom is near at hand - Isildur's bane is found."

When he reached for the ring she leapt to her feet, teeth bared like an animal, ' _Stop_!" She demanded of him, but her actions were ignored. It was Gandalf that changed the tide, that stopped her reaching for her blade and cutting off the hand that dared touch the Ring of Power, words spilling from his tongue like foul curses, spitting and filled with black magic so deep and true the sky swelled, dark with gathering clouds.

She folded back onto her chair, making herself small, ashamed by her display, by her weakness. The ring stood on the plinth now and when she looked on it she could only feel disgusted, looking away where once she had been drawn in. Looking at it now she felt sickened.

Elrond and Gandalf spoke, but she was lost in thought again, the words violent and terrible it was not for some long moments passed that she noticed her fist was so tightly clenched, her nails digging hard into her flesh enough to draw pinpricks of blood to the surface, and she was entranced by them. Her head foggy and disconnected with her body.

"It is a gift...a  _gift_  to the foes of Mordor! Why not  _use_  this Ring?" But her head darted up, neck moving so fast she felt her dazed mind would snap and her brows furrowed, mouth turning into another scowl when she realised it was he again, Boromir, the man that would not stop speaking. In the years since she had known him, he had changed little. But never before had she found his words enraged her quite so much.

"Long has my father, the Steward of Gondor, held the forces of Mordor at bay, by the blood of our people are your lands kept safe! Give Gondor the weapon of the enemy… let us use it against him!" She would not allow such judgment to come from him, her voice an ungentle bark -

"And long has  _Rohan_  kept back the tides of Orcs and Goblins from the mountains, Boromir. Long has Rohan watered its crop in the blood of riders. Gondor needs no more weapons." Drawing the eye of the circle at last and holding herself straight, regal and proud, one of them and one of this council. Wild for years she may have been, but she had passed through Gondor and Rohan both, and she had seen the funeral pyres, mass graves, the Simbelmynë that grew over the graves of fighters and farmhands, butchered by dark creatures crossing their lands to Mordor. How could any miss it? The steward son scowled at her, and she knew he had much to say to her that he could not spit at her here.

"You cannot wield it. None of us can." Came the voice of the man beside her, the dark ranger dressed in velvet, his words true and above all honest. As if this was a truth she had yet to admit to herself. "The One Ring answers to Sauron alone. It has no other master."

"And what would a  _ranger_  know of this matter?" Boromir spat, his own wealth and circumstances clear as he spoke down to the rough stranger he had not met. To him, she was sure, Strider meant little. She had hardly opened her mouth to retort, ready to tear down the red-headed man who denied his counsel, but she was beaten, the silver-haired elf standing firmly and brilliant with rage. Surprising, when before he had imbued the image of calm, still waters to her eye.

"He is no mere  _Ranger_. He is Aragorn son of Arathorn, you owe him your allegiance."

Silence reigned again and she stared at the man beside her, where she had seen good looks she now saw it was breeding. The blood of kings flowing through his veins and even rough work could not beat away the regal tilt to his form. He had not changed with this revelation, though he looked irritated it had come about. He had not changed, but now she knew he was here as more than just a friend. "The true heir to Gondor," She spoke, voice quiet as fury raged around her. Boromir's anger was not quelled by this but stoked. Here before him sat a threat to his father's false throne, here sat the son to take Gondor from Boromir. In long past days he had spoken, quiet and ashamed, of how he feared the true kings return to usurp he and his future, and now here he sat. She pitied him that. "The king that will make the white tree bloom again," she whispered, repeating the beautiful story, he was near forgotten by time but here he sat before her, in the guise of a ranger. His eyes darted to hers, narrowing for an instant before the racket continued around them. She had been right, it seemed. Strider was more regal than a ranger, his blood was as precious to some as the Ring itself, and it had power enough to turn the tide in this war.

"The Ring was made in the fires of Mount Doom. Only there can it be  _un_ made. It must be taken deep into Mordor and cast back into the fiery chasm from whence it came. One of you must do this." Elrond spoke, interrupting the fight raging around them. Gimli's axe lay in shatters, the Ring unscathed and her head ringing, screaming out as if she'd taken the blade to her own back. No mortal blade would kill this evil, even a lord or a kings.

She brought her hand to her temple, turning away from them as they fought on, leaping up, shouting, insulting one another with less respect than a tavern brawl. She would not offer, she did not want this task. All around her, kings and princes fought, the good and famed for glory and for their race - let them fight, let the noble and honest quest to their hearts content. Let her fade away from all of this.

The voice that stopped them was small but he was stronger than they, making himself heard among them. Frodo stood, Frodo offered himself, a simple hobbit, lowly, short and unremarkable. Frodo would take the Ring across the world and into the darkest places there was in all of Middle-earth. She shook her head, meeting his brilliant blue eyes and speaking to him alone, though all around her heard her, derisive, unkind and uncharitable. She had no room or time for sacrifice, she was too certain he would fail under such weight.

"Throw it into some pit in Moria, Frodo, have a dragon swallow up this curse and  _never_  let it see daylight. Hide it deep and in the dark, my friend, do not  _carry_  it with you." She begged of him, but he shook his head. She felt defeat for a moment, heavy and bitter on her tongue. How was it that darkness had taken her own mind after only a few moments with the ring in sight, and yet here offered an innocent thing, willing to carry it with him, close to his heart and accept no such darkness? "I will take the ring to Mordor," His voice became forceful, and he seemed much taller than he was. Gandalf pledged himself to him, to guide him, and she bit her tongue. Then Strider - Aragorn, a fabled king of men, Boromir a stewards son, the beautiful elven prince, Gimli, they offered sword and bow and all of Gondor to the hobbits aid. They stood behind him, not just Frodo standing between Middle Earth and the end but all of them. It made her less certain he would fail and fall. She followed, as Hedda, rogue of nothing, or Idis, daughter of Rohan, she knew not which.

"If you must carry this, Frodo, then you may call me your shield." She said, at last, slipping her round shield from her back and kneeling before him, pledging her oath to him in a grand manner, as if he were her king and she a simple warrior among his army. She could only offer herself, Rohan was not hers to give, and she would not offer him falsehood here in the light of Rivendell, in light of his courage.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Boromir to Hedda -**
> 
> _Sitting at the bed with the halo at your head  
>  Was it all a disguise, like Junior High  
> Where everything was fiction, future, and prediction  
> Now, where am I? My fading supply. _
> 
> Forth of July - Sufjan Stevens

It came as no surprise to her that Boromir argued. He was against Sam, Merry and Pippin's untrained, soft hands accompanying them, and he spoke his protests to Elrond when the council was concluded. But it was not just the hobbits, merry, bright and sweet he wanted to leave in Rivendell's halls, but hers as well. Of course, Boromir was the classic picture of a warrior, strong, proud, and he, like so many men she had known, thought her weak. His anger and his mistrust of her likely stoked his feelings just as much now. He was a fool, even as the child he had known she was anything but soft-handed and soft-hearted. Even when he'd given her a blade and taught her how to use it he thought she would only need it to fend off suitors. Perhaps this truth was why he hated her so now.

She stormed toward him and affected an emboldened gaze, not about to show the weakness he imagined. "I would speak with you before you try to throw me from this fellowship". She said through gritted teeth, folding her hand around his elbow. She did not want to be seen so, but the eyes of the council as it disbanded found the action and followed them as she pulled him away roughly into the gardens of Imladris, her feet pounding the pave stones and loose dirt as they found a wilder, more secret corner to speak.

"And I would have spoken with you in the days past, Idis, but you offer nothing but secrets and falsehoods." His voice was rough, mouth turned down and brow deeply furrowed as he shook off her arm, striding ahead of her until they stopped, certain they were alone. "We are children no longer, and this is no mere  _game_ in the training yard," he chastised her and she scowled, face reddening softly. He was just past six years her senior, and always when she had known him he had reminded her of that.

"We parted badly, Boromir, do not hold that against me now. The past and slights you imagine do not build our path here. You knew even then how skilled I was with a sword, did you think fifteen years had passed and I would learn nothing more?" She snapped, hating him for trying to shame her, for making her feel so small. "I am not playing, Boromir, and I will do my duty to Frodo and the ring."

He scoffed, turning away from her a moment as if he couldn't bear to look upon his old friend. " _Will_  you?" He spat out, voice a low accusation, meeting her measured gaze. He meant those words as an arrow, aimed straight at her heart, and they cut her to the bone. "Last I knew you, you ran from your duty, you still run from it by Gondor's reckoning, what is to say you will not do the same now?"

"I was a  _child_ , Boromir!" She shouted, ashamed at the reaction that ripped through her. She cursed her weakness and her rage when he dared throw her actions in her face. "I was thirteen, Boromir, when you were so young gates were held open for you to explore this world, a sword was put in your hand. When I was so young they were closing,  _penning_  me in!" Her breathing came quickly, her every action seeming too loud in the stillness of the garden and she stepped away, breathing deeply to steady herself, laying her hand on one of the grand trees she could not name.

"This is a promise I have made  _myself_ , Boromir, and _I_  have offered myself to this fellowship. This time no one has chosen my fate but me." When she spoke again her voice was steadier, affecting a mask of civility, of politeness she had worn for weeks passed in this awful, beautiful place. "I am a friend to this fellowship and to you. Lord Elrond has accepted my shield, so have the dwarves and Lord Legolas. It matters not if you protest."

She delivered that blow, at last, watching his reaction and seeing the outrage clear on his face. Years had passed and she had changed but he was still so similar, the strong young lad he had been laying in his gaze. She had shamed him, humiliated him as a man of court, that much was clear, and she had hurt him again. His face turned down, knowing his argument was done and turned on his heel, leaving her standing alone. She would take his anger, it was easier than his questions. If she were brave enough she'd answer them all, but she wasn't, and hurt was easier to shoulder than the truth.

* * *

As frenzied preparation overtook the valley, the girl found herself often seeking solitude. Her companions were pleasant, kind even in Gimli and Legolas's case and she spoke with them when their paths crossed. Often though, they were in the company of their own, Boromir with his men, Legolas his elven friends both Mirkwood and Rivendell, Gimli with his warriors, even Strider was at home here. Each man of the fellowship had their people, even Frodo had his halfling friends, pledged to help him and always looking merry.  _You_ chose _this, Girl, being alone is easier than being with them._

There was less decadence in the valley now, and she was glad for it. They were feasted, but high tea and polite conversation were not the right salute for ten strangers in all the world as they prepared to cross Middle Earth.

She made no other move to speak with Boromir again, his feelings were clear on his face, warring as they were, anger and hate, affection and sadness daily beating his brow into a new shape. Not willingly was she an early riser, preferring by far the night, the firelight, the moon and stars, but to prepare for her company she took to waking as soon as the sky began to light. She was not about to be caught sleeping while all around her packed up their camp and left her behind on their journey.  _You have much to prove, Girl,_  she told herself nightly. Her days she spent training with sword and shield as often as her courtly manners. It would not do to fail in either virtue now.

She set herself beneath a tall tree, curled in its roots and half hidden should anyone pass. She was dressed roughly, clothes soft and unbefitting the princess Idis, but still more grand than any Hedda would have worn. She pulled her blade from its scabbard and her whetstone from her pocket. The blade was beautiful, one of the few things she had which sang of royalty - it was the honour of a shieldmaiden to carry this sword. She oiled it's bronze hilt often, letting the intricate knots with all their meanings and their protections shine, unable to shake her affection for Rohirric art. She sharpened the slim blade slowly, it was not made for weight - such brute strength came from her shield, this was a sword for piercing armour at the joints, for cutting the arteries of beaten foes. Woman's work, she thought to herself with a snicker. The sun rose slowly in the sky, turning the grey light a slow, watery yellow and she stretched, a yawn raking through her and she spoke aloud, trying to wake herself that way, "Weak, Girl, you're too used to comfortable beds,"

"Are the gardens more to your taste than your bed, my lady?" There came a voice through the weak light and there was the ranger, the recluse that spent his hours speaking in the musical lilt of elves, reading or alone. He was dressed in his own leathers again and she was glad to see it, looking up at him from her sword, whetstone still.

"It would seem we have that much in common -" She started, but her jibe was stilled when she knew not how to title him. In truth, her manners failed her when she thought of him. He called her a lady, a false title of course, but she alone knew that. His own… was he Strider, the ranger she had called him, or the king she knew he was in blood? Even if she'd held onto her royal education and titles she likely would not have known what to make of him. "Call me Idis, call me friend - I care not, but I am no lady this early in the morning,"

He chuckled gently at her joke, looking at her with those light eyes so kindly she looked away again, unable to hold them again. To an outsider this would look like a kindness, to her, it was simply another falsehood; Idis was as ill-fitting to her as the sigil she wore now. Her fingers strayed idly to it, embroidered at her collar again as she had in council. His own eyes followed to motion, missing none of her nervous action, but she saw his gaze slide to the loose ties of her tunic, open collar exposing the whorl of her delicate bones beneath her freckled skin and lower, to her rough beige chest wrappings. She had to stop a snicker when his eyes flicked quickly to hers again and found a smirk on her lips -  _as if he were the first to look too long_. Still, it seemed he had seen more than most on her face alone, his eyes lingering on her so often it seemed they never missed a twitch or a frown when her mask itched.  _Be still, Girl, be patient and poised._

"Then I would have you call me Aragorn, my friend." At last, it seemed his eyes were done with her, flicking away to his own hands where they picked at the bark on the old tree beside him. "You knew of Boromir, the steward's son before this council," He said, watching her reaction for any emotion she let slip. She was lucky, her face was blank, eyes turning back to the cold steel of her sword, fingers tracing its hilt and the knots engraved upon it, following their winding patterns with the tip of her finger and the flat of her bitten, broken fingernail.

"I had known him, many years ago. I called him a friend." She said lamely as if it meant nothing, "Gondor and Rohan have often fostered children in their neighbouring lands," she offered as if the obvious explained it. She grit her teeth hard, knowing he was not fool enough to accept her reasoning. Knowing he would force more from her.

"But you were not fostered, My Lady, Gondor has no place for a Shieldmaiden," his tone was calm, quiet and gentle, assuming nothing of her though they both knew he knew more than that.

"How well you know Gondor," she muttered darkly, frown turning her lips as she picked at the supple leather wrapped around her sword hilt. "Gondor did not foster a shieldmaiden but a betrothal promise." Her hands were white, gripping the hilt of her sword so tightly, though she had hardly known she had moved. "Betrothed but never wed - as you said when we met in the gallery. There's bad blood between our lands because of it. He's right to mistrust me after it, but not to doubt Rohan." She spoke with more force than she had meant, words coming out like a whip. She left no room for him to probe, to question her reasons or ask after her tale, scraping the whetstone sharply over her blade, the grating sound filling the air and her eyes stubbornly down. He was quiet and were she less well trained she would not have heard him come closer, standing just behind her shoulder. It was a task not to straighten her back and fidget under his gaze again, biting her tongue to relieve her nervous energy.

"I only mean to ask what you knew of Boromir, your stories are your own," and his voice was honest and kind, shocking her from her stubborn silence. He sank into a crouch, still taller than her but almost level and she could not look away, eyes tracing the strong line of his jaw, his soft dark hair, looking for the lies there. His hand flattened on her shoulder, warm and weighty and she leaned into the touch without thought. In all her weeks in the valley, any touch had been featherlight and unsure, unwilling to presume to touch her too roughly even on the training grounds. "His words, his wishes for the Ring… I would know if you trusted him with it."

She was quiet, eyes meeting his once more and holding their gaze. He was a rare man indeed if he did not mean to tear her stories out of her, if her past was not his prize and his right. Already he knew more than she had admitted in a decade, but he did not press to know what she would not tell. She sighed, pulling her eyes away again, focusing on a delicate bed of flowers ahead and accepted she would have to trust him; his intentions were too honourable to lie him.

"I was young then, and he was barely twenty himself, but I knew him well I thought." She said, speaking to the flowers, hardly able to feel the warmth of him beside her. "He was a new solider, but he loved his father and his people. I believe still he means only to protect them with his heart and body. I would trust him with my life, Aragorn, but with the Ring, I am less certain." She brought her hand to her unbound hair and pushed it back, squaring her soldiers. "I intend to keep watch over him, aye, but I hope he is as strong as he imagines himself."

With that she dug the point of her sword hard into the dirt, punctuating her words, letting it stand grandly in silver and bronze as she got to her feet. The sun was higher now, shadows long and elves surely stirring as she tugged her sword from the dirt and sheathed it, looking towards the sky as it turned a brilliant orange. The company was expected in the courtyard in a few hours time, and she had supplies left to pack. This was the last day of peace and pampering they would have for some time; when the sun was a little higher they would leave these gates and she would likely never see them again. She nodded her goodbye to him, discontented with her own dark words and dark thoughts and walked a few steps away before stopping once more. Not turning, but raising her voice enough to be heard:

"Aragorn - I should tell you, I hope we all are."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapters written, looking forward to them all having a bit more to do in the wild, I enjoy Rivendell and manners about as much as my girl does.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I heard them calling in the distance  
>  So I packed my things and ran  
> Far away from all the trouble  
> I have caused with my two hands _
> 
> \- Mountain Sound, of Monsters and Men

When agreeing to a quest of valour to fight the forces of all evil, she had not expected their way to be as dull as a meandering path to find market. She proclaimed this to Gandalf as they made camp on their third night. He knew her humour well enough to laugh, and beside a fire, night falling slowly over the bare plains and the rocky mountain behind them, it felt good to share a joke between a wizard, a woman and the hobbits Merry and Pippin.

"We must hold this course west of the Misty Mountains for forty days. If our luck holds the Gap of Rohan will still be open to us,"  _if_ , he had said, and it was a great  _if_. Even when she had crossed the gap there had been orcs rising in the mountains, darkness massing in the golden lands of Rohan. She had told him this already in Rivendell, but her own knowledge was not great enough. She knew Theomund and Eomer rode in endless parties, horses strong and powerful to hunt the bolder creatures that came too close, but these were tavern whispers and reports from drunken riders she had wrung on her path to the valley. As Gandalf bleakly drew out their path, Gimli and Sam sat beside the fire, eagerly awaiting the sausages sizzling there and making loud advertisements about dwarves feasts and friendship.

"And there our road turns east to Mordor, where perhaps you will find more excitement," He teased her with twinkling eyes, but her amusement was gone, eyes on the distant, setting sun where Legolas, pale-haired and delicate had gone ahead to scout the grasslands. Behind them somewhere in the growing dark was Aragorn, following like a shadow to see that their path was not discovered.

"One can only hope," she said, trying for a smile, and looking to Merry and Pippin who looked grim and shaken at the mere mention of the black lands they sought. "By then my friends you shall be the best swordsman the Shire has ever known!" She exclaimed, promising them that as she, tapping the bare blade cast aside by their feet with her boot

"Aye that won't be too difficult, m'lady, we'll be the only swordsmen in the Shire," Pippin grinned, picking it up and brandishing his sword, jumping to playfully knock it against Sam's frying pan as he tried to arrange their dinner. She shook her head as their own antics took over, and rolled out her bedroll beneath a rocky outcrop as Boromir took his students for their first, promised lesson. She had been glad to see he felt such an affinity for the two, though he avoided Frodo as if he were a plague rat. "Loosen your grip, Merry, you'll shatter your wrist that way," he drilled them, critiquing every move they made as Aragorn slipped into camp, smiling gladly at their show.

"Perhaps sparring is not so bad an idea, if ever we are come upon we should know our strengths," She thought aloud, watching Boromir begin slowly. He taught well, words she remembered from her own lessons, telling his students how to step, to hold their swords. But it was plain these students wanted more excitement, slashing at each other and interrupting him. Tactically it was wise if ever she'd met with another or a band for a contract they did so, and she felt foolish for not thinking of it. They had to know the speed of each others swing, what they left unguarded, they had to know one another well enough not to stab the wrong side in battle. Gimli and Legolas knew well enough she was a capable fighter, they'd nodded their heads in the training yard, seen her strike and stab, red-faced and bruised too often to be unaware, but it was not comparable to fighting against one another.

"A contest!" Gimli exclaimed grandly, his voice rough and deep, echoing off the rocks around them, leaping to his feet and hefting his axe, "a fine idea, and since the lady suggested it -" He said, eyeing her with a grin beneath his orange beard. She raised one brow, meeting his challenge though it was not what she had meant at all. None the less, she needed something to make her heart pump faster, and a fight with the dwarf was more than enough, she was half enamoured with his axe, though she'd never fought with one of her own. In one sleek motion, she was on her feet, sword unsheathed from the scabbard at her hip

"Do that and we'll be burying her beneath the mountains before nightfall," Boromir said, and she stilled, seeing him watching her, mocking her in front of all the fellowship. mocking, or did he truly worry for her? He had been cool with her, but outright derision was not what she had expected, it was uncivil of him. If he could be so ill-mannered and still called a lord, then so could she. "I would face you with pride, Gimli." The fellowship was quiet, watching their exchange and Gimli opened his mouth, surely to defend her from his words, as if she could not alone. "But I think Boromir needs besting first." She heard cheers echoing around them, and she was glad to entertain. Of course, when he'd strayed to the training yard she'd sheathed her sword and left - he had no idea what she could do. Perhaps he thought her clumsy and unsure as she had been when she'd known him when he taught her to fend of assault with the blade at her hip. But since she had fought hard, maybe even more so than he, without finesse, without a proper teacher. Only in violence and blood and yet she'd lived.

When she was an older, nameless serving girl in a filthy town she'd learned her art. Before she had proven herself a capable fighter and earned contracts and coin alone and honourably she'd fought for crowds. It was not uncommon, every city and town wanted to see blood and decent fighters with weapon or club or hand, and there was always room for another stranger in the night. There was no honour, no pride in these rings, just coin and a battle until she or her foe surrendered. When she'd begun she had had a Shieldmaiden or a Gondorian captains manners and pride, bowing, letting her opponent breathe and think, not breaking a rule of combat. As she and Boromir circled, she considered just how often she'd lost.

Boromir looked uncertain as she unbuckled her sword belt, not wanting it to hinder her movement, and letting it drop loudly into the dusty earth. Eyes narrowing he met her challenge, the two of them walking away from the crackling cook fire and watching group to find some space. In the light, eight eyes stared at them and the hobbits bet their breakfast on the victor. She bounced on her toes, light-footed and unhindered in boiled leather and soft wool, where he was heavy, a brawler in his mail.

They circled one another slowly, he still seemed amused that she would even invite him to a fight, even as she held her sword to hand. Suddenly, without warning and hardly a sound, she made one sharp slash, the tip of her thin blade arching to the back of his sword hand, drawing blood. He had not moved, likely unwilling to strike first, likely still thinking her as weak as most men did. In the fighting pits she'd learned to strike fast, learned to take the higher ground with anything she had. His eyes met hers, exhaling sharply as he shook his hand, a few red drops falling like steady rain and took a swing of his own, his strong form swinging the sword high above his head. She tossed her sword away sharply, the grand thing clattering on the dirt as she swung out her leg, sharply hooking her ankle behind his own. One hand circled his wrist, stopping his blade coming upon her head or his own as the other went to his forehead, palm covering his eyes half a second and shoving him over hard, unbalancing him as he moved to strike. She pushing him hard, making him stumble over her and fall down hard onto his ass, slipping the sword easy as silk from his loose, surprised fingers and taking it for her own.

She did not want to fight him fairly, she did not want to risk him winning. If he did it would brand her unworthy of the fellowship in his eyes, and yet if she won he would hate her just as much. She hadn't fought him since she was barely taller than her sword was long - she didn't know if she  _could_  win.

It didn't make a good fight, no, but it was unexpected and would save your life while your opponent was too shocked to make sense of it. Mutely she offered him back his sword, hilt first as he leapt, furious to his feet. She'd made a joke of his challenge, made the fellowship laugh and made his insults mean nothing at all, that was enough for her tonight.

The cheers of the hobbits were quiet a long moment, making as much sense of what had happened as Boromir before they exploded again. She turned to them with a bow, accepting their laughter easily and grinning as Boromir stalked back to his seat by the fire. "Take that as no example, Halflings, you should learn to fight with honour, and  _that_  you'll learn when I best Gimli," She grinned, and he roared, brandishing his axe again to meet her.

* * *

After her trick, she felt different somehow, a part of her even more ashamed that she'd felt just barely prodded and devolved so. Next _you'll be throwing dirt in the Gondorian's eyes_ , she thought bitterly. She was justified, she tried to tell herself, and the fellowship did not seem to think less of her for such a dirty trick, 'My lady' still on their lips when they called for her. As shamed as she was, it made her feel lighter, the weight of her mask lessened somewhat to see they laughed with her when she acted so.

Days passed and while she tried to refrain from letting herself get so careless she found it tempting. In her uiet, slipping resolve she observed Aragorn often, the ranger far more noble than she could ever hope to be, even if she sat before them in a crown and wearing pure gold. He seemed at ease with himself, impossibly so and it made her feel ever more false. He felt no need to be a king in their company, but he was more than a ranger, and he seemed comforted in both. The hobbits once more in session with Boromir, she sat, back straight and legs folded neatly beneath her, and Aragorn was neatly splayed beside her, as if he had not thought through every angle of his limbs they way she was now. Perhaps, she thought, mere comfort is what I must emulate. Perhaps it was not informality the fellowship would disdain her for, but falsehood if she kept this mask up, particularly considering how poorly she wore it.

She was quiet, uncertain beside him, eyes on the fire but body keenly aware of his actions. "Move your feet," he called, lighting up his long pipe and letting sweet smoke billow, she breathed it in, missing her own pipe keenly. It near made her heart pound to smell the burning tobacco, an indulgence she'd always enjoyed on cool nights in the company of allies. Watching smoke furl from his lips it drew her gaze, irrationally irritable as she often was that on their journey she could not indulge her own vice as the hobbits, Gandalf and he often did. Noting her watching he looked at her queerly, fanning the smoke away. "Apologies," he said, standing to move from her. Pipes were common in every town she'd taken up in, in taverns and in fighting halls but not in high halls, not for royalty. Such a vice was considered indelicate.

"Nonsense, Aragorn," Boldly, foolishly perhaps she reached for his pipe. He let her take it from her fingers and she drew deep from it, smoke curling in her lungs and exhaling slowly, playfully parting her lips to let a perfect ring rise from there, a skill a Gondorian had taught her once after too much ale and a little mischief. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep herself from smirking. She heard his chuckle, her body relaxing where she sat and thought to herself;  _you are a poor princess, but a shieldmaiden you can still play._ He did not seem scandalised or sickened that she broke an unspoken rule or two.  _Be like him, be confident in all your informality._

She looked to find him watching her, and wondered if she had made her meaning clear enough to him. Mere days ago she'd made her meaning with a sword and a trick, now she made it with a pipe:  _I am not glass,_  she had said without word, an ounce of Hedda in her falsehood,  _I will not shatter with a little smoke._  Their exchange had gone unnoticed, the fellowship turned to Gimli's loud rousing, calling for them to go through the mines of Moria, Gandalf's words and the halflings attacking their teacher and she was glad for it. Had Boromir seen her he likely would have returned to the scowling of days passed. He still barely spoke to her, but at least he was not willing to antagonise her again. It seemed he was at a loss of how to treat her now.  _It's understandable, you've wounded his pride half a hundred times in all your years, you've made him put out the fire you started, you've offered him no truth._

"What is that?" Sam's voice broke out from his cookfire, cutting over Boromir and the hobbits wrestling and the laughter of the fellowship, breaking through the levity they'd found on the rocky ground beneath the mountains.

"Nothing, just a wisp of a cloud," Gimli retorted, barely looking, though all others eyes were turned towards the strange shadow in the distance, the grey cloud unnatural in the blue-white sky. Boromir stilled, standing and stopping his war with the hobbit cousins to speak "it's moving fast… against the wind," he noted, and a stone settled in Hedda's stomach, squinting at the dark, impossible shadow. Imperceptibly she reached for her shield, hefting it in her grip, a natural reaction to the new and the strange.

Legolas cried out as if they should know what he foresaw with his elven eyes, "Crebain! From Dudland!" She knew not what he spoke of was, but obeyed when someone bid the group to hide. Heart rate rising sharply, eyes on the gathering storm she gathered her pack, her shield and blindly what lay around her quickly in her arms. She would leave nothing there for the flock to find, and as they came closer she saw it was no wisp of cloud but a dreadful flock of creatures, moving too fast and too close to be an ordinary murder of crows and the elf feared them too much to be nothing. Her arms full she ran, sliding painfully across the dirt floor, careening into prickly, dry scrub bush where the others had hidden. Holding her breath, hugging the loose bedrolls she'd gathered up a flock of birds, screaming and black descended upon their empty camp and extinguished cookfire.

Her clothes were filthy, covered in dirt and dust along her left side where she had slid across the rocky ground but she cared not. The passage south is being watched, Gandalf said, voice ominous and grim. Her eyes turned to the high and snowy mountains east of their broken camp. Heart pounding a little fast she looked to put down the bundles in her hands and found Aragorn's pipe still curled in her fist, making her smile gently as she slipped it dumbly into her pocket. When she paid some heed there was a new path for them, in the ice and higher places, and she shivered lightly at the very thought of going through there, feeling cold. Quietly, their humour killed effectively by the birds they more carefully repacked their camp, readying to take their new path. The group was sombre, hatefully so, and when they strode with purpose she fell in step with Aragorn.

Before she was ready to return it she lit the pipe again, taking another few long, smokey breaths for herself before offering it back to the dark ranger she walked beside. He laughed at the action, and it made her feel free a moment, sharing his pipe and finding it warmed them both greatly.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _You want a revelation,  
>  You wanna get it right  
> But it's a conversation,  
> I just can't have tonight  
> You want a revelation  
> Some kind of resolution _
> 
> \- No light, No light, Florence and the Machine.

Their path over the mountains was fraught from the moment Frodo fell. Hedda met Boromir's gaze, unfocused, strange as it was and she felt fear growing deep inside her belly. She reached for him without thought, to comfort or still or warm him she knew now. But he stepped away from her, storming ahead of her party through the deep snow, the sun throwing light over the frost like diamonds. How had it felt, she wondered, watching him walk away, to hold the ring in his hand? To speak of power and the fate of the world, then to hand it back to the small creature? She had missed nothing of the encounter, her heart beating too fast, knowing, as they all did that this would test the man. She had seen the indecision on Boromir's face, seen Aragorn's hand tightening on his sword, and she had met his eye a moment, her own hand curling around the short knife at her hip. The knife of his house, the knife he'd given her.  _What cruelty was that?_  She asked herself again if she trusted Boromir with the ring, and had no answer. He lagged some way behind a way and she slowed her steps to walk beside him, but a few paces from the others and muscles taught with the chill of slowing down so.

"Boromir - Boromir stop!" She said, her breath difficult to take and burning her throat with the cold. She snapped out her hand and caught his wrist, but her voice was quiet. "You think this quest is foolish, you still think Gondor could use this weapon, it cannot." She made it kinder, stepping closer, knowing rough manners would not serve her here. "You would not be blamed, Boromir for returning home. It may be that you could better serve Frodo from your seat in Gondor," Her eyes were wide; honest and open. She hoped he could see the truth there in her eyes, and even her fear for him. He must know that she meant not to shame him or despise him, only save him. But he did not meet her eye, shoving her away so roughly she stumbled in the snow.

"I do not need the counsel of some  _girl_  of Rohan." He snapped back, sharp as a whip, storming ahead to meet the rest of their fellowship, leaving her there, shaken at the trailing end of their line.

When they took to more dangerous ground, the wind howling, the rock face cold as ice behind them and snow to their waist it seemed he had composed himself enough to speak with her again. He could not walk so far ahead now, the hobbits slung over his shoulders to stay out of the high snow. Aragorn had done the same and she had teased the dark ranger through chattering teeth for playing pack mule.

When Boromir spoke it was clear he was not in a gaming mood and had been stewing over her words since she'd offered them. "Aye Idis, and when you tire of walking you'll have to inspire the dwarf to carry you across the mountain, we've too many charges to suffer you as well," Boromir called loudly, though his words were not as biting as they might have been over the chattering of the fellowship's teeth and the screaming wind. They were a gentle jab, one might even think he was trying for humour had she not known this was not his type of jape. This was the kind of jab a courtly man would use to put another in his place. The hobbits looked at him curiously, not certain what his intent was and Pippin, chattering teeth and hair full of snow said his name, to calm or admonish she knew not. Perhaps he thought his dislike of her would warm him, perhaps he thought to knock her down for speaking to him so. Did he really think her so weak?

"Agreed, Boromir, and when you stumble next I'll leave you in the snow!" She snapped bitterly, too cold, too bone weary for him now. Hedda the rogue could be so cruel with ease, imagining leaving him here in the flurry, never to bother her again, never to reach for the ring or shame her. There were a dozen curses in her head, the skin of her face burning with wind chill and snowflakes on her lashes. In this high mountain, she cared little who thought her and her country crass, her blow low and unkind, only wanting him to hurt for an instant. All the fellowship knew she spoke of his mind, not his body, and his near slip with the ring, and the hobbits looked at her wide, shocked eyes. They thought this behaviour beneath her, but even a princess would be willing to curse in a place like this, she reasoned. A rogue would be screaming abuse at the wind by now if she were able. As if she called it herself a voice whispered on the wind, growing louder and louder to scream of foreign, dark magic, the very rock shaking beneath them. She looked up, her words to Boromir forgotten before he could bite back at her. Was this to be her last words? Cruel and cutting, to be remembered so?

She stumbled back, the snow falling heavy around them.  _Avalanche_! she screamed, but she was certain no one could hear her. Her anger was forgotten, replaced by utter fear and pure ice, falling over herself, battered by the cold wall burying her. When it stopped her head spun and for too long she could not tell if her eyes were open or shut, staring down into an ground of snow bank or staring up at the sky. If this was the end, blanketed in snow, she felt curiously warm, curiously alive though her limbs were numb and heavy.  _Idiot Girl,_  she thought to herself,  _would you go to the stars so hateful? Would you carry such anger with you into the sky?_

She felt a shift in her atmosphere, and she felt a warm body behind her, curled around her, arms ensnaring her slim waist. Numbly she moved, throwing out her hand in front of her, testing the bounds of pure white around her and breaking through the snow with a curious crack. She gulped down the fresh, cold air like a drowned woman, icy limbs flailing to warm her somewhat. Throwing up her arms she broke the covering atop her wider, revealing herself. When she turned back, the snow loosened after her motions she found her shadow, half buried in the snow and still. Seeing him so she panicked, reaching for his hand, near sinking through the snow again as she pulled him up. She prayed he had not perished in the snow, and though his hand was cold she felt his blood thrumming at his wrist, life still thundering through him. In her world of white, unsure if she was alive or dead his arms had been wrapped around her to keep her from the cliff face. When she brushed the snow from his form, uncovering his pale face she traced his jaw, brushing the snow from his short, slight stubble and dipping to his throat for his heartbeat again. She knew he lived yet, but hearing the throb of his heart and the heat at her fingers steadied her. She could see no one, and she would not be left alone, the only one alive while the fellowship lay dead and buried in the snow.

His eyes snapped open at her touch, and she was quiet, letting him focus as she had after such a fall. He seemed a moment as dazed as she had been, staring at her like she was the dead herself before he remembered himself. Aragorn breathed shallowly, brushing snow from his hair and helping her lever him onto higher ground out of the snowy cocoon she'd dug around them. It seemed the hobbits had come loose of him in the crush, and he spun, seeking them in the snow bank, calling their naes and she joined them, shouting for Merry and Pippin. Snow and ice-crusted every inch of their clothes and hair and skin, so cold it burned, but she felt as if the snow had cooled her anger and her hate a moment. Now she only sought every member of their fellowship alive and well. For one moment in weeks, she had felt alone, unburdened by the fellowships searching eyes and their expectations. She had thought herself a corpse, and she had not been ready to die yet.  _Not like this._

"Thank you," she breathed, lungs tight, still frozen and voice rough, dusting snow from his shoulders though in truth it was to warm her own bitter numb fingers. "His breath was a plume of cold steam between them and he took her hands in his own, rubbing them between his own to warm him. She bowed her head, blowing her breath onto their joined hands as she narrowed her eyes against the wind. She would long to have enough time to warm, to think and breath and quell the thud of her heart after such fear and anger, but she didn't have it, shouting for Merry and Pippin beside him.

When Legolas popped like a daisy from the cover of the snow the fellowship began to unearth themselves her fear abated somewhat, her lips turning into a grateful smile as she counted each head. Those closest she dragged closer, bidding them to group in the snow to share their warmth and she knotted her arms around Pippin and Merry, hefting them above the cover as much as she could, wanting them away from the ice.

As they shivered together, Boromir called out, pleading his own course once more. "We must get off the mountain! Make for the Gap of Rohan and take the west road to my city!" Even then she could not feel the same anger for his stubbornness, her arms shaking around the hobbit's shoulders. He seemed to be begging, and she felt for him dearly, her anger stripped away. Over, under or around, their path was unsafe and unsure. Aragorn's sighed beside her, his chest pressed against her back, a warmth shared between them as the fellowship huddled closer, sharing their heat as they tried to shake their shock and take stock of their packs and cloak, beating the snow from their clothes.

"The Gap of Rohan takes us too close to Isengard!" He called, trying to make him see sense once more.

"We're safer frozen on this mountain than trying to sneak past Saruman's door, Boromir, if you are so eager for us to die we may well make it harder for him to find us!" She said, and though her words were grim they felt more her own, honest. They felt to her like a challenge, but not for Boromir, for the darkness that had wormed its way inside her since the day she'd called herself Idis again.

"If we cannot pass over the mountain, and we cannot pass through it - let us go under it! Let us go through the Mines of Moria," Gimli demanded, and truthfully what option did they have? How could the stone halls of dwarves be more dangerous than a dark wizard hunting them or a glacial mountainside? Would they survive another attempt on their lives?

"We will go through the mines," Frodo said, voice strong and true and she thanked the stars for it. He was not the warrior or guide, but he bared the brunt of this journey, carried the heaviest load of all of them, and it was right that he chose where it took them.

"So be it," Gandalf said, mouth turned down and face, solemn and old. She saw some fear there once more, the fear that lead her to Rivendell and to falsehoods. His fear curled darkly inside her, but she pushed it down, trying to be lighter for all of their sakes.

* * *

The way down the mountain seemed quicker, easier, and they took it with more haste than up, all of them eager to leave the high cliffs. Around them each seemed lighter, even Boromir had lost the dark shadow to his gaze and seemed less burdened beside them. They still walked close as they walked the rocky paths, unwilling to separate far now in case anything befall them. They walked into the night, seeing no sense in stopping when they came so close to what Gandalf had decreed their path.

"Will your kin truly give us passage through the mines Gimli?" Hedda asked the dwarf, though she did not mean to offend him. She had longed for some excitement on this quest, meeting the ever elusive dwarves of the mountains was something she'd often thought of, and never managed. The most she'd met was a wayward blacksmith from the blue mountains, fighting for gold in the pits and spending it nightly in the taverns. She had liked him well, and his friendship had only made her more eager to explore dwarven caverns, no matter what danger Gandalf saw in them.

"Aye my Lass! My cousin Balin is a friendly sort, Moria and his feasts are the stuff of legend. Not one of us will leave his halls the weight we walked in!" He said with a wide grin and a belly laugh, clearly happy to take the path he'd hoped for through the stone. He patted his big stomach mildly, "an' a good thing too, the food of elves is nothing to the appetites of dwarves." He joked, laughing with her again, "You're like to waste away on the diet of Rivendell."

"Too much greenery for your taste, Gimli?" Aragorn interjected with a raised brow, speaking of the leafy, meatless diet of Legolas and the last homely house they'd suffered in silence.

"Dwarves are made of hardier stuff than these skinny wraiths, that's why they use feathers and sticks for weapons." Gimli mocked the blonde elf and his bow beside them, but he was near merry about it, teasing to fill the sharp wind, letting them laugh together as Legolas snipped back about dwarven affections for ale and axe.

Back and forth their jibes went, speaking of dwarven events and elvish parties in the misty woods until Gimli crowed with joy before the black cliff face to their side. "The walls of Moria!" He spoke in awe, the sound echoing on the cavern walls around them, though Hedda saw nothing but bleak grey rock, craggy and plain in the low light. She did not want to insult now, but words bubbled up "Not quite the gates of Imladris, Gimli," she snorted but was silent when Gandalf reached out a hand, drawing from the rock a slim an incredibly delicate silver light. It whirled a moment and solidified, forming the outline of a door directly against the rock, made of pure light. "Itidin...it mirrors only starlight and moonlight…" the old man murmured, the clouds above them clearing and the image glowing brighter, words in a language she did not know.

"I am corrected," She muttered, mostly to herself, following the gleaming patterns, reaching out to touch them herself and finding only rough rock beneath her fingers.

"But of course, Gandalf's paths was never so simple, and the door demanded a password Gandalf did not know. Did he truly not know, or was this his own, secret way of stopping their path into Moria again? Distrust spiked inside her and she tried to cut it down, not wanting to think so of the grey man. She wandered away, hearing him snap, rapping his staff against the rock and muttering different things in different tongues to no avail.

She stood over the black lake, flat and dark, looking over its mirror surface until it rippled, shimmering and reflecting the pale moon as Pippin and Merry disturbed it with rocks across the way, amusing themselves. Her eyes traced the delicate light on its surface, seeing her distorted reflection in its depths. Though their path had not been long she thought she looked pale, tired though in her life she'd known more exhaustive journeys than this one. Squatting beside the water she ran her fingers through the image, letting it distort and change until she heard Aragorn's words echo on the cliff walls, "Do not disturb the water," He said quietly, that deep voice serious, and he was obeyed, the boys stilling and tugging her own fingers from the lake quickly. She turned her eyes to Frodo and Gandalf, hearing them speaking of riddles and hearing the grate of rock. She allowed herself a smile, turning from the water carelessly, wanting to see the fabled halls as Gimli spoke of them and a small grin parting her lips as Gimli sang of the hospitality of dwarves, hardly listening, her eyes on the dark entrance. Strange, she thought, why would they not light the way? Are they truly as unfriendly as it was said? As they took a mere few steps into the black cavern something crunched beneath her boots, but in the darkness, she guessed it was rock or dust. Ahead Gandalf called light from his staff, the cold glow lighting the darkness as Gimli carried on regaling them of meat and mead.

"Gimli…" She murmured, wishing for him to stop a moment and think. Her own eyes grew accustomed to the light Gandalf called from his staff as the cavern began to light and she saw it was not rock that lined the entrance but bone. Littering the floor like hay in a stable were the bodies of dwarves, shot through with deadly shafts. Legolas snatched one up, spat " _Goblins_ ," and threw away their accursed arrows. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled, was this the danger Gandalf had feared?

She cursed under her breath, taking a quick step back, left hand up to more easily slip the shield from her back should she need it and her right on the hilt of her sword. Gimli was bellowing, she heard, the sound echoing through the empty halls and she hissed at him to silence roughly, did he wish to bring every being in the mountain upon then? Boromir, Legolas and Aragorn drew their weapons and she followed after, sword singing as it left her sheath, looking into the shadowy tunnel. But the danger came from behind, and Frodo screamed, unprotected from the open door and the black lake behind.


	7. Chapter 7

From the water, there came something, slim and clever and slick. A tentacle snared the hobbit, dragging him back across the rocky bank toward the water. "Strider!" Sam shouted, voice echoing in the halls of Moria. His hobbit fellows were upon him first, light-footed as they were they hacked at the limb, freeing him for only a moment before there came a dozen more, knocking them down. Whatever lay waiting in the lake wanted Frodo, the rest of the fellowship left untouched on the bank as their innocent friend was swept ten feet into the air, held by his ankle above a gaping, toothy maw in the water.

Legolas took aim as she and the others bounded into the waist deep water, arrows peppering it's hide and Frodo tossed from limb to limb, keeping him within the monsters grasp even as Boromir felled one of its long limbs like a tree. It was fast, that was clear, attacking from one direction, beckoning them into the water distracting the warriors. Boromir's sword hacked at another long limb to free the ring bearer while behind him snuck another, shooting from the water to grasp him from behind. She was faster, the heavy weight glanced off her shield, battering her into Boromir's back with a foul curse and winded. But it did not find purchase on the weight and width of her shield before she had sliced it in two, making it scream and send another volley toward her. Each she cut down with a quick, ungainly slash until one went beneath her sight, knotting around her ankle under the water and pulling her down beneath the surface.

She had no time to catch a breath, water flooding her open, screaming mouth and nose, stinging her eyes as she was dragged deeper. Blindly she slashed her sword down on its grim tentacle, unable to see or breathe as it drowned her. She curled her body, making herself small as she gripped her blade, having to concentrate hard not to lose it as her head felt light, lacking air. Her blade found the limb finally and severed it like raw meat, her slice so hard her blade cut into the skin of her leg and she rose to the surface, coughing up water and diving for the bank. Pain lanced through her, sure to be bruised and bleeding when she had a chance to think beyond the reach of her blade.

When she looked her group was freed, and Frodo scrabbled away as she did, crawling across the rocky bank back into the black tomb of Moria. Hands reached for her, pulling her along into the dark and steadying her weak, loose-limbed steps. She found Boromir's arm around her waist, tugging her away from the entrance where the monster followed. The lake thing pulled its massive body from the water, limbs leveraging it onto the bank behind them, it's grey, slick body shapeless and ugly as it clung to the cliff face, closing in. But the weight of it proved too much, collapsing the entrance down on it, leaving the monster crushed beneath the falling stone. Boromir dragged her away, dodging the heavy stones falling down upon their heads as the entrance sealed, their path plugged by the monsters corpse and the stone. She gasped for breath, skin cold and cold water dripping from her clothes.

Gandalf spoke through the gloom, lighting his staff once more, stepping into the long hall, leading their party across the field of skeletons. "We now have but one choice. We must face the long dark of Moria. Be on your guard...there are older and fouler things than the Orcs in the deep places of the world." Hedda's breath came heavy, breathing in stale air, cold and smelling of decay as Boromir let her go.

Four days they must walk through this oppressive gloom, Gandalf had said as he led the way. The thought a hateful one - only made worse when Gandalf became so plainly lost. On a high platform, three tunnels opened up before them, and in a place like this one could guess that taking the wrong one would be the easiest way for the Ring and the fellowship to starve and die in the darkness. But it gave her time to rest, stopping her limping walk to near collapse upon the stone where they made camp and settled. Boromir had not spoken to her as they walked, and she had not spoken to him, but through the rockier places where they'd had to climb he had taken her arm, helping her unsteady steps and she was glad for it. But still she said nothing. Plainly he did not know what to say to her yet and she would not push him again as she had on the mountain.

She settled on a ledge of hard, cold rock and turned her back to the group as they spoke with one another, not much wanting to entertain them now. Kicking off her boot she rolled up to torn fabric of her leggings to bare it. Before her there was a long but shallow cut, blood congealed and red-brown painting her skin. "You're hurt," came Aragorn's quiet voice above her as she bared the slash, shocking her from her thoughts.

"It's not so deep, but it's badly bruised," She said carelessly, reaching into her pack for the only clean, dry clothes she had - her old travelling clock, shoved to the bottom and hidden away. She ripped a long shred of the hardy, faded black wool and wrapped it around the wound before he batted away her hands, clearly not impressed by her attempt.

He knelt at her feet, moving the heel of her foot to his lap and looking closer, his fingers gentle on the bruised, purpling skin. "It's fine, I am not worried about a little blood," she blurted out, and he looked at her again, one brow raised at her words. As if bribing her he reached into his cloak and took out his pipe, offering it to her and making her laugh. "In that case I am in undeterminable pain," She japed, bringing the back of her hand to her head in a swoon as she took it. She reached into her own pack for her hidden tobacco pouch and matches and filled the barrel as he shook his head at her games, a smile on his lips. He splashed some of the cool liquid from his water skin onto the corner of his cloak, using it to wipe away the dried, red-brown stain from her skin. His motions made her hiss at the contact as she lit his pipe, the flare of fire drawing his eye. But the cool, slow motion she made soothed her, making her sigh lightly as she looked away from the wound and out into the dark. He looked up at her with a furrowed brow and she looked away, blowing out a short plume of smoke to distract her from the discomfort. "In future you should ask for help when hurt." He told her, some reproach in his tone.

From his own pack he drew a few dried sprigs of greenery wrapped in a grey handkerchief and put them between his lips, chewing them into a paste and that drew her gaze again. The paste he smoothed over her cut and it stung but she didn't flinch, only her eyes tightening as he bound it with the cloth she'd torn from her cloak. When her ankle was bound he did not move, his eye on her bare leg, purpling with bruises but higher, a series of wicked scars curving around the back of her shin. Whip marks from her time serving in the lordly houses of Rohan and Gondor, and a poor one she'd made. That much was clear in the raised silver marks. He ran his calloused fingertips over them, making her shiver softly as he traced them, a question in his gaze.

"In future I will simply not get hurt." She japed, offering his pipe back to him when he was done, trying to make light and shifting her leg from his lap. "But thank you, I'm not the healer you are." She said, voice more honest and open than she was comfortable mustering. She quickly shoved her legging down over the bandage to cover them, stepping into her boot she felt better covered, her skin showing too clearly the life she'd led.

Gimli's voice broke their silence, shattering the understanding hanging between them as his fingers had traced her skin and he stood from his knees to sit beside her on the rock. "You've seen the home of dwarves now, Lassie, haunted as they are, and the flighty halls of elves," Gimli spoke across their dark gathering, turning his gaze to her with a glint of merriment and moving to sit with the two children of men. "What of your own? Tell us of your own palace!" He demanded, and Boromir's own eyes were upon her, slinking closer to join their little group.

"There's no palace, Gimli." She answered after a few long moments. "Meduseld, the Golden Hall of the kings is on a hill beneath the white mountains." She said lamely, not giving him the detail he wanted, merely offering the information anyone in Rohan knew, unemotional and unaffected. Licking her lower lip she paused, looking to the ground but knowing from their looks she would have to give more. "We have little use for the art and delicacy of elves, it's built of thatch and timber, but it's grand even still…" her voice took on a lighter quality, not meeting the eyes of the men around her, feeling them all upon her.

"The Rohirrim love their horses, of course, they're known for it. Word across the world is that an Eorling can ride even the wildest mare if they need, and none can face a horsed army of the Riddermark. So it stands that the stables are near as grand as the hall, housing destriers stronger and faster than any you'll find in all Middle Earth." Her eyes went far away, thinking of the rustic timbers of Meduseld, the warm nights and roaring fires and summer fetes.

"Are there many Shieldmaidens like you in Rohan?" Aragorn's voice broke her silence, thoughtful as it was. He knew the answer already, she thought, he knew the Westfold never spoke of a shieldmaiden princess. He knew there must be a reason, though his own imaginings were likely wrong.

"No. The Shieldmaidens of old are dead and gone, their swords buried with them. New kings do not want Rohan's daughters warring." She said, her voice taking on a bitter quality until her face coloured, thinking such was saying far too much. "It took much for I alone to learn, the king would not like more women of the Mark taking up armour. I merely gave him little choice in the matter."

There was no word of a lie in her words, merely a twisted reality. She presented for them the false image of a strong princess, fighting for her right to carry her weapon when she had done no such thing. Her king would surely hate her for taking up sword, but she felt proud to carry the true sword of a shieldmaiden, even if she had never earned it. Of course, this sword and its legacy was not her own, nor freely given. She and all her pride was but a stolen relic, robbed from a greater heroes grave in the night.

Trying to make light again, she turned up her lips into a wry smile and drew her sword, letting the shining blade lie across her legs. She could speak little of the hall she'd grown in and the life she'd left truthfully or without pain, but she could speak of Shieldmaidens. They were the heroes of her childhood and often their tales had comforted her. "But see here?" She said, eyes flicking from man to dwarf to man, all of them watching her, hanging on her words as she traced the centre knot, a delicate pair of curls, reflecting and refracting from the hilt of her sword like an opening flower.

"The old Eorling mark of womanhood. Mark fo the Shieldmaidens and protection." She explained, voice quiet, moving it to show the etching in the bronze hilt more clearly. She traced it with the bruised, calloused tip of her finger like a tutor. "But when wrapped with this…" She said, drawing her hand to her collar, showing off the stitched knots there, tugging the delicate knotwork into the light. It was the same symbol they saw, the same curls perfectly fitting around the concentric circles of yellow thread crossed through to form one single symbol like a knot. "No man knows they wear the mark of Shieldmaidens on their breast. It is worn on every man's armour in Rohan. It is protection and strength, but none remember what half of it means." She said, eyes gleaming, spinning the tale. HSe'd not told many what she'd discovered. Their grouping was quiet, staring at her with indiscernible eyes. She did not look away, face bright and gladdened to share this. At least in this, there was no need for lies on her lips, and her expression was open and brighter than any of them had seen of her before. None the less, she was glad to have the long moment broken as their group was distracted by the loud exclamation "If in doubt, Meriadoc, always follow your nose!" She sheathed her sword, putting away her story and getting to her feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to say, this is the chapter that made me really like my Hedda.   
> I've also set up a Pinterest for this story, which includes an image of how I imagine Hedda, https://www.pinterest.co.uk/charlotte470948/shield-of-stars/


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _If this is redemption why do I bother at all?  
>  There's nothing to mention and nothing has changed  
> So I'd rather be working for something than praying for the rain  
> So I wander on till someone else is saved _
> 
> \- We Don't Eat, James Vincent McMorrow

"Well there's an eye opener and no mistake," Sam murmured, awed by the great dwarf city before them. Dusty and dark as it was, its glory was still obvious in its great carvings and grand pillars. Her own eyes drank it in, shed never seen such grandeur before. It was vastly different from eleven halls, impressive in a different way. Here were sharp corners and bold lines where the elven houses looked natural and grown from the very earth.

She was enraptured, thinking how rich it must have been when inhabited and she longed to have seen it. She turned her gaze to find the fellowship darting into a small room, Gimli's howl echoing from it, loud, deep emotion wracking through him as she followed them into a tomb. A shaft of bright sunlight she'd dearly missed in this oppressive dark bore down on a heavy grave. She felt for him but knew not what to offer him as he wailed, eyeing the dusty corpses littering the ground. Bain, Gandalf said, Gimli's kin - the kind dwarf he'd spoken of. A frown on her lips her eyes went to each warrior in their party, seeing them all so discomforted as Gimli wailed and she made a slow circuit of the room, coming upon a fallen soldier, lordly even in decay and glittering with jewels. The wealth of Moria indeed, she thought, reaching out for the delicate chain around its neck. Thoughtlessly she slipped it into an inner pocket of her clock, unable as she was to resist a treasure that would feed half of Rohan for a year. He would not miss it, after all, and she may need some silvers when all was done.

Legolas whispered to the dark ranger, clearly discomforted, a light, pure elf seeming at odds surrounded by death and dwarves. Her own body shook, more chilled than she had been even on the mountaintop as Gandalf's voice cut through her thoughts. "They have taken the bridge and the second hall: we have barred the gates…" He read on, and she shut her eyes tightly, trying to block out his dire recitation. "A shadow moves in the dark. Will no one save us? They are coming." He finished, voice shaking her as she stared down at the grey wizard, moving toward him. "Are these the monsters you feared in Moria? Goblins, Gandalf? But where are they?" She breathed, unable to find her voice. He turned his gaze upon her, so expressive and yet he had no answer for her.

"I fear there are many shadows in the deep of Moria, My Friend," he muttered, and it seemed as if he would say more but a clashing, ear-splitting noise cut them off and he turned, robes flaring to Merry, Pippin, and the clattering echo of a skeleton falling into a deep pit, the sound unending.

She cursed under her breath, the fellowship stared and Pippin winced at every crack and clatter sounding from his mistake and Gandalf shamed the hobbit for his mistake. "Fool of a Took!" He spat at the shorter manned without thought she stepped closer, laying a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it wordlessly. "Throw yourself in next time, and rid us of your stupidity!" His insults were cut off, the sound of drums thundering in the distant but growing with every breath, filling the group with more dread than the wizard could manage.

They scattered and she planted her feet, feeling the twinge of her cut beneath her boot she pushed the pain down. Hedda drew her sword, the sound a pitched hiss and her eye was caught briefly by the etching on the hilt, finding strength in the symbol she saw there now. "Frodo!" Sam shouted, and she did not know whether or not to bid him silence now, not when they had announced their presence so thoroughly through the echoing the well. Turning to the dark-haired hobbit his own sword was drawn, a futile gesture she was certain, but the blade glowed a brilliant blue, her own eyed widened at the sight.

Legolas shouted, seemingly understanding it's meaning and before he was done warning them of the approaching orcs she and Boromir had bounded forward in one motion. Her own steps were clumsy and her leg faltered, sure she was opening the wound again and his own heavy, pounding the stone to the heavy doors. He looked into the grand hall and she yanked him back, hand fisting in his cloak. Two arrows sang barely a hand away, making her curse aloud, the word echoing in the air between them and going ignored as they embedded in the doors as they shoved them shut, backs braced against its weight.

A great, hideous roar shook the ground they stood on and Boromir met her gaze, his sorrel eyes wide. "They have a cave troll!" He warned the group, seeming more irritated than afraid, drawing a small smile to her lips. Legolas and Aragorn tossed them axes strewn across the floor and they barred the door, the old, half-rotten wood not likely to hold long.

Gimli hefted his axe behind her, standing on his kins grave and bellowing "Let them come! There's one dwarf in Moria who still draws breath!" She might have laughed, but as the door thudded behind she fell clumsily away, sword and shield in hand, defending their group with the others. Bows, swords and axes in hand, even Sam was armed with the flat of his frying pan, sword not to his taste. A deep hole was gouged through the door, black weapons hacking it to pieces until arrows feathered from the beast snarling through the slit and it screamed, the sound high and ugly, creature felled by the archers in their party. Arrows would not hold long and the door splintered and fell, a tide of fast, heavy bodies streaming through - far more than they had, wielding heavy, sickly sharp weapons and squealing like animals.

Their own party was not much more civilised, screaming battle cries, Gimli howling behind them in rage as he leapt, shattering the skull of one with his axe and splitting it, swinging faster than she might have thought to slice and slash at them wildly. She could not concentrate on each of them, much as she may have wished, but barrelled forward, sheltering her body behind her shield and feeling the heavy pounding of orc bodies she battered with it, stepping over them as they fell and burying her sword in soft bodies as she sliced between their armour.

She was splattered with thick, black blood quickly, sweat beading on her brow beneath her light clothes. She had no armour, could not afford such when she'd made this trip and not thought it necessary beyond leathers and her shield. Now she regretted that, narrowly ducking beneath the blade of an orc that had come from behind her. She disarmed him with ease, slim sword knocking away his sword and cutting through his bare neck, spilling a fountain free. But it dawned upon her that this type of battle, one she'd rarely known, some protection might save her from an errant blade she could not see coming.

She had a moments pause and greedily took a breath, finding that the group had circled the hobbits, protecting them where they could. Beside her Aragorn let out a primal battle scream, slicing the head from one beast and she met him with her own as she brought down the heft of her shield hard on a fallen creature. The edge beheaded the beast that scrabbled at her bloody ankle, clawing at her, trying to ruin even more her bloody, torn leggings with his sharp fingers. It was still, a mangled thing beneath her feet and she turned, sword flashing to best another. With another roar the entrance shattered, stone raining down on them and a larger creature came upon them, chain gangling from his neck and orcs leading him, baiting the monster forward. Its limbs swung, rattling the floor with its weight, small, dumb eyes wild. Legolas sank an arrow into its hide, but it seemed as effective as a stone as it swung a club as large as Pippin toward the hobbit, shattering the stone floor as he ducked away.

The battle moved to fast for her to follow or think, the troll came loose, furious and feral from its orc captors and screamed out its rage. When she finished two more demons with the face of her shield, shattering their cheap helms and slicing through their veins she tossed one of her long knives hard, the shining metal turning through the air and cutting into its neck. But still it did nothing, the hilt of her horse dagger buried deep and for a moment she damned herself for wasting her favourite knife, not wanting a troll to carry it in its hide when it was done with them.

Boromir took hold of its chain a moment and it tossed him like a doll, making him crash into the far wall as if in punishment for pulling the monster away from the hobbits it sought. She roared in fury and leapt closer, her wounded leg screaming, seizing one of the orcs fallen spears in one quick motion and following the chain as it moved and swung like a serpent. With a cry she sank the blade down through the heavy links of its chain and into to the floor, levering it into a crack deep in the rock. It did not control the beast, but it penned it, not letting it move far or fight as Legolas climbed upon its back, filling the hide behind its neck with arrows.

It swung blindly, and she rolled to avoid the fall of its club again, but it was not it sought, seeming to see Frodo hidden behind the rock face, climb turning smooth and ancient stone into rubble as it sought him out. She tried to go him, cutting down every orc in her path but she was slow, burdened as she cast aside her shield, the armour falling heavily. Blade in one hand and short knife in the other she leapt from stone to stone, killing everything in her path to him and walking over their bodies.

But still she was too slow, the beast fell dead before her but Frodo remained pinned to the stone, sheered through by the monsters last move as it died screaming. She shouted his name, falling to the floor beside him, wiping the bitter blood from her face to see his pale, frightened face. The group gathered and dumbfounded he pulled aside his clothes to show them the gleaming silver armour beneath. He was saved, it seemed, and her horror turned, grinning at him and hitting his shoulder gently. "Hobbits are made of hardier stuff than it looks," she breathed, trying again to lighten her own heart, even though her words were more awed than she meant.

They stood, light on their feet, the battle around them done and all of them stained with the blood of it. Her heart still thundered, the action seemingly finished too quickly ad having gone on for hours. Pain lanced through her wounded leg again, the brief moment of pause making her feel it more acutely as she took a few steps back, leaning heavily against one tall stone pillar. Her breath was quickened she turned away, chest falling quickly. To her left Boromir stood the curved, horse head dagger in his hand, offering it to her. "Thank you," She looked to him, sheathing the curved blade and its place on her waist, hidden beneath her bloody, ragged clock where it always was. She stepped away, finding her fallen shield and fit it to her back, bouncing on her toes as the fellowship stood, gathering themselves as she did.

Gandalf was certain there were deeper evils here than orcs and goblins, and quickly they left the tomb and made for the great hall. There in the distant corner of the great hall there came a light, strange in this dark and musty place but glowing like a furnace. When she saw the far high ceilings were alight, glowing with raging firelight she knew he was right.

"What is this new devilry?" Boromir whispered, accusing as the old man stood still, staring into the red light gaining on them. Was it drawn by their battle or by the spilt blood in Moria's halls? He made no answer, a heavy, scraping noise proceeding their silence and the light coming closer. He was bowed, old and bent and leaning on his staff. Hedda could hear her breath, too loud as she moved closer to Gimli and Legolas, grip tight on her sword. "Gandalf - what comes?" She hissed, trying to snap him out of his silence.

When he spoke he was quiet, serious but strong. "The Balrog. A demon of the ancient world… This foe is beyond any of you." He told them, and dread cut through her. "Run!" He shouted, and without thought they followed him, his grey robes billowing ahead, staff still lighting their way.

Run they did, their path a skinny bridge across a black, endlessly deep pit. She could not bear to look down, sure it would make her head spin as they huddled at the other side, Hedda threw her arm around Pippin's shoulders as he shook, keeping the sweet hobbit closer. Behind them lagged Gandalf, his grey robes looked ragged and poor as the beast stood before them. A horned monster wreathed in fire, and her eyes were enraptured. This was a demon she doubted any living man had seen, and here it stood before them, only a wizard and a way of rock between them. "Cross the way, Old Man!" She screamed, but he did not heed her.

The old wizard turned against the monster, booming voice an order to the fire devil. "You cannot pass!" He shouted as if he would be obeyed by the thing before him. His staff, pure white light met a flaming sword swung upon him, "Dark fire will not avail you!" He spoke, his words ancient and she thought them a spell. She could near feel the heat of the fire on her skin as they battled for the bridge, the thing drawing up tall to scream down at the wizard. Her arm tightened on Pippin, holding him back as the hobbits screamed, for herself as much as him. He spoke again but she could not even hear his words, eyes wide, mouth agape as he slammed the but of his lit staff down on the bridge before him, shattering the stone until it fell away. The beast tumbled, arching and falling into the darkness and she rejoiced. He was saved, she knew, he had saved them all.

But there came a whip of flame behind him as he turned, snatching his ankle and dragging him down into the depths. A scream would not cross her lips but her eyes blurred at the image, unable to make sense of it as the bridge stood, broken and empty. Frodo screamed, endless and broken but she could not accept it. She could not make a sound. She shook off her feelings, shoving them down deep. They had no time for grief in this dark place as Goblins gathered on every side. "Go!" She bellowed, shoving Pippin from her arms and forward, dodging the hail of arrows that fell upon them. Down the stone and out, into the daylight of the mountainside, lungs bursting and her own mind empty, focused only on the floor in front and the fellowship beside her.

She could not even feel gladdened for the sun, her eyes shutting around the sudden, brilliant light and blinded. Around her this band of strangers spoke, grieving and murmuring to one another, looking for solace. She stood, exhausted, alone. With Gandalf gone, any right to be among them was dead and gone. She was nothing. The company would not have Hedda, they would not accept her. She'd killed Idis too many years ago now to return to her. With Gandalf gone, there was none left among them that even any side of her she didn't hate. Should the fellowship tire of her, taunt her, throw her out she could not stop them. Her heart felt too crushed to accept cruelty from them now, she would shrivel and snap under them if they thought as little of her as they should. There was only one place left for her and she fell into it, the nameless girl, young, quiet, numb and nothing, dancing from tavern to pub to hall, serving better lords and ladies from Gondor to Rohan and brawling in the night.

She had been young, and for four long years she'd broken her back, no sword of her own, falling into silent submission to her betters and raging, bloody battle with her equals. Around her were nothing but betters, and she sewed her mouth shut. Still as stone, they kept arguing around her. Her shoulders shook, turning in and she felt she couldn't breathe. Her eyes were dry but they blurred anyway, unable to focus on the distant forests. Dimly, the fellowship wept and she walked away, pain lancing her every step as she stumbled away from the mouth of the mountain and her group. Should she leave them here? Go her own way without the wizard, without fearing her own weakness for the ring? Slumping down onto the rock, her body feeling too heavy and not there at all, mind disconnected from the stone below her. The hobbits wept, Boromir and Gimli embraced like brothers. Aragorn's eyes were upon her, and ungainly he fell to his knees before her again, saying nothing. His face as blank as hers. "Here -" He said, voice quiet and kind as he pulled her shaking leg back into his lap again as he had in the caves, seemingly a world away.

"You shouldn't touch me," She gasped out, voice small, far away and emotionless. He looked at her strangely and she tugged her ankle from his grasp, shoving down her bloody, shredding leggings though they bared her almost to the knee now and were stained dark. She could not stand to have his touch - when he knew her better he would be ashamed to have knelt at her feet. "'M well," She said, voice rough from screaming for the wizard. He ignored her, reaching for her again and she shook her head, tears welling in her eyes until they blurred and she gasped out a quiet sob.

"We must reach the woods of Lothlorien by nightfall," He spoke loudly, ignoring the feeling settling around them all. "Gather your things, tend your wounds. By night these hills will be swarming with orcs," He said to all their party, and when he reached for her again she didn't move, grip still gentle on her as he unravelled the bloody bandage and cleaned it slowly. As he did tears fell in a steady stream down her cheeks, body shaking with silent sobs. He spoke again, but she knew not if he spoke to her or to each and every one of them. His voice was soothing, rough hands on her skin.

"Be well enough to make the journey."


	9. Chapter 9

Crossing the plains to Lothlorien Aragorn was light-footed, eyes turned ahead but just as often checking on the line following behind. The sun fell slowly in the sky, and he was gladdened they made it to the forest's boundary before the darkness fell. He was not certain they could contend again with orcs this day. He counted each head, the fleet-footed silver elf beside him, the Gondorian captain he so little understood and the dwarf barrelling behind. He counted each curly head of their hobbit party and some feet behind, not lagging far though she favoured one leg obviously was the Eorling princess. In the setting sun her hair was lit with fire, pure orange and gold and her fair skin was painted gold. She kept her head down, seemingly interested in nothing but her feet and the hobbits backs as they ran ahead. This did not change - no matter how close they came to the woods of Lothlorien.

At the mouth of the mountain, he'd not known how to speak far beyond his own feelings, not enough to speak to hers. Words had failed him then, but still, he'd reached for her, healing what he could of her far away eyes.

In light of the darkness they had seen, Lothlorien dappled in sunlight seemed a dream. It was delicate, rustic and strong at once, the air filled with earthy scents and the ground soft with mud and mulch beneath their boots. The Lady of the Wood met their party, filthy, broken and tired as they were. She was radiant. Pale and shining she seemed to light all of them and he felt far beneath her in his rangers garb, but Gandalf bid him lead their party, ordered it, and he could not let his strength fail him here. When Galadriel picked Gandalf's fate from his head he would have feared her, but all he could think was to be glad he need not say it aloud. He was not certain how he could. Galadriel spoke aloud to each of them, soothing, forgiving, offering friendship to even Gimli. In his head, he heard her speak to him alone.

She whispered his names, the title he'd known in all his life, ones he'd feared and run from, ones ran from still.  _Estel of Rivendell, Aragorn, Son of Arathorn._ Were she someone else he might have hated her, but with her kind eyes upon him and he could not look away from her.  _Strider, Thorongil. How many names you wear, how many you_ will _wear, Elessar…_  She whispered as they turned, making for the camp they offered. His bedroll he laid in the sleek roots of a far tree. Beside him Gimli slept, in the distance the elves of the wood sang a lament to their fallen friend, the hobbits, saddened as they wrote verses themselves, speaking of the wizards fireworks and his wit. He took his own sword free, sharpening it with a slow sing of the stone, unwilling to disrupt any around him. Wordless and quiet the horse princess gathered her pack, making for the river to clean the blood painting her.

With her gone, he felt his head a little clearer, and he some time to think of her. She was strange, this he knew. She was a woman altogether hid from him moment to moment. He had some knowledge of women, of course, but while he'd known delicate royalty and fierce fighters, this princess seemed caught between the two. When he'd seen her in the gardens of Rivendell with the hobbits and Lord Elrond he knew her to be regal. He thought of her little, dressed well and properly mannered for even Gondor's sensibilities, let alone the rustic royalty of Rohan. And yet when Elrond had swept her into the Gallery her words, restrained, thoughtful as they were, seemed odds from one to the next as if her manners were a smog across what she truly wished to say.  _The way of royalty,_  he mused, ever hiding their true thoughts.  _But she keeps herself poorly hidden_.

When she spoke to him she had a battle in her voice, offering up her armies like a queen. He could see in her very bearing of the shieldmaiden she was and the skill she had. Her hands were calloused, muscles clear beneath the cover of her clothes. Many stories he knew of Idis, promised to the steward of Gondor's son and shamed by his refusal. In the taverns of Gondor, he'd heard her mocked, though he cared little for gossip. It was said she wasted away in Meduseld a dour maid but seeing her so he saw no such thing. He had looked for her stories but she had offered little, keeping her secrets to herself, and all he could see was that she had many, not what they were. It was fair of her, he had many of his own to hide - she did not even have his name then. As they'd travelled she seemed at odds again as if Shieldmaiden and princess were at war within her, her straight back and shame opposing her furling smoke and rare, brilliant smile. Even her eyes offered no clarity, delving deep within him or diverted to the floor. 

This quiet she had taken on after Gandalf's fall disturbed him, made him think of the broken wretch the stories painted her. The hobbits had wept openly, grieving but as he knelt at her feet but she was quiet, hidden and silent. Healing meant little, the life he'd led ranging and in elven halls had taught him much, but she seemed awkward at his touch then and before, clearly used to tending herself or not being tended at all.  _Strange_ , he'd thought again  _that a princess would be so unused to aid._ Stranger still that his touch had broken her reserve on the rocky mountainside.

When she had pulled away from him with a quiet, mousey words he was struck until he remembered in some halls his poor rangers hands could have been flayed for touching a princess so. He wondered if the despondency in her was this, not some guarded secret, but simple discomfort at his hands on her. He felt foolish for not thinking of it. The wilds may have dulled his own cares for manners but she had lived the life of royalty he had not, she likely still cared for these rules. Another contradiction in her, the curses under her breath and yet the formal lilt of her words. More and more often, from the snowy heights of the mountain to the deep of Moria, his found his thoughts were upon her.

Before him there was another subject of his thoughts, so closely entwined with her and their quest; the man of Gondor.

Boromir was cold, far away on the edge of their group, his thoughts clearly leading him away. "Take some rest. These borders are well protected." Aragorn said, voice low and standing to move closer. The Captain was pacing, tormented even here and Aragorn willed him calm.

"I will find no rest here, I heard her voice inside my head. She spoke of my father and the fall of Gondor. She spoke of Idis but all of it lies. She said to me, 'Even now, there is hope left.' But I cannot see it. It is long since we had any hope." He was failing, the solider, the captain, the man who may one day sit upon the throne of Gondor. He was stronger than most, but still, he was losing himself with every step he took alongside the ring. He continued on, these things, these fears, Boromir's dreams needing to be spoken here in the quiet between them. "My father is a noble man, but his rule is failing. And now our… our people, our  _friends_  lose faith. He looks to me to make things right and I — I would do it. I would see the glory of Gondor restored." On he spoke of it, of high spires and Aragorn could see it in his mind's eye, that grand place he feared and loved.

"I have seen the White City, long ago." He admitted, at last, laying a hand on his shoulder and looking into the same shadows in the wood.

"One day, our paths will lead us there. Both of us and all our fellowship. And the tower guard shall take up the call: "'The Lords of Gondor have returned!" He seemed happy to think it, calmed as he met the ranger-kings eye. What a dream he had, what an unlikely dream. "It seems I'm cursed, never able to do my duty." He finished, face fallen and eyes on the ground. Of course, he spoke her, in all his pain and uttered words Idis was strung between them.

"You were to marry her," He spoke quietly, drawing no undue attention from their friends, affirming with the man what he already knew. The captain merely nodded, not looking at him, fingers tracing the horn of Gondor at his hip. "I'd heard you thought her unworthy, broke the promise." He mused. Boromir looked at him, brows furrowing at his words. They sounded like an accusation, he realised after, as if he was mocking the steward's son now in this weak moment.

"I broke nothing. My father spread his rumours to save our line shame," He spat out, shaking his head at the thought of it. So it was Idis who broke the promise. Had she not, Rohan and Gondor may have been more strongly bound in the wars to come, as it was they'd found each other again. How fickle fate could be.  _Fate_ , he mused,  _or Gandalf the Grey._  "She left and gave few reasons, but none the truth."

"You loved her?" He asserted, trying to understand the man before him or the woman who had slunk away from camp. Whatever they were to one another it had brought them both safety and savagery, mocking each other atop a mountain and fighting side by side beneath it.

The sorrel captain snickered gently and shook his head, looking down, looking tired. "Not that way." He brought a hand to his hair as if he did not have any answers himself. "I knew her for a time and called her my friend, only that." He smiled gently, thinking of days passed. "Each day passes and I find myself recognising my friend, and recognising a stranger in her."

Aragorn looked to his own sword, forgotten on his knee and did not answer, leaning his head back against the smooth bark of a tree and taking out his pipe to draw slow, smoky plumes, but even such an action reminded him of another of her contradictions.

"Make peace, my friend, you fought well together in Moria. She's not forgotten you if that's what you fear." He said, at last, the words clipped but kind as swept to his feet, leaving his sword behind him. He had no use for it in this peaceful place, and though it felt strange not having It on his hip he was glad, lighter without it. He strode into the wood, steps light. To an outsider, he'd likely look to be wandering, exploring as was his right, but he followed the minute traces that spelled the path she had taken, tiny disturbances, broken twigs and branches toward the river.

He found the cool ribbon of the water, silver clear and banked with greenery. He made his steps loud to announce his presence. She was sat on the grassy bank, her back to him, golden-red hair dripping wet and curling softly around her shoulders. Her new leggings were pure leather, dark and worn and reminiscent of his own, rolled up to her knees as she bound the cuts on her shin. Bared and obvious amidst the freckles that seemed to cover every inch of her were those scars, straight and clear, pale strikes on her legs that spoke of corporal punishment the like no princess knew. He cleared his throat, seeing that she wore only wrappings around her chest, dripping wet and tight, her taut stomach and shoulders bare, banded all over with strong, quick muscle. At his motion she jumped, eyes tracing the forest before falling on him. She made no move to dress, turning back to the water and Aragorn noted that freckles dotted her bare shoulders and the dozens of scars apparent, raised and white slashing through them, scars that showed the life of war and weapons play.

He dipped his own hands into the water, scooping up the cool water to rinse his own face and knelt on the bank a few feet from her. When he looked back at her she moved slowly, as if lost in her own thoughts as she wrapped herself in a similarly black tunic, arms tight to her wrists, hardy and entirely designed for movement. She said nothing more of what he should and should not do as she had on the mountainside. "You knew him well," He said simply, not wanting to force her tongue.

"I did." She nodded her head, and it seemed that was all she would say before she met his gaze. She frowned gently, uncertain as she so often was before saying more. This seemed to be her way when she spoke of herself, offering only a sliver of herself as she had of Rohan. "I looked for… a way to prove myself. Gandalf offered adventure when he passed through," she said finally, her words as stilted and conscious as they always were when she spoke of herself and her history.

"That's what he offers his friends, only most do not ask for it," He said, trying to put her more at ease and it worked, making a smile turn her lips.

"You're right, he was quite trickster when he wanted to be," She spoke quietly, watching him, and he watched her back. Her green eyes followed every move he made before she spoke again, "Galadriel spoke in my head… I thought myself mad, but I think she spoke to each of us, did you hear her?" She said, meeting his gaze with her piercing green eyes, her words unexpected as they usually were, her own thoughts always seeming far from his when she fell silent.

"She did." He murmured, shifting closer to her as she wrung out her hair wild hair, trying to stop his eyes from straying from her round, fair face to think on how becoming black suited her pale skin. Such would be rude, and he must remember himself in her presence. Her legs crossed, and numbly her fingers picked at the fresh wrapping around her leg. Her calm, her open gaze was something he was not certain he'd ever seen so completely from her, and he could not contain his question. "What did she say to you?"

She smiled to herself, dreamily beginning to wind a few slim braids through the cloud of her wild hair. "She called me something - a word I don't know.  _Thandrîs,"_  she said, her tongue not matching the elvish perfectly, untaught but still her meaning was clear and Aragorn's lips turned up, meeting her eyes with mirth. She looked at him with some nervousness, as if she feared his answer, her calm fading a moment. "I wondered what it meant."

He did not need to hide his smile from her, hand straying to the heavy shield behind her, leaning against her pack and running the tips of his fingers over the heavy iron rim, drawing her eye to it. "She called you Shield Queen, my friend," he told her, and the title suited her well. She did not answer, sitting beside him in the moonlight of Lothlorien, at peace and the world around them light, for once pleasant and slow. When he looked at their reflection in the flowing river, she had drawn a pipe, hewn from pale wood and was drawing smoke from it slowly, lazily enjoying the pleasure before offering it to him. He took it, at least one of his queries about her sated.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally got to do an Aragorn chapter, I've wanted to do that for a while now. Lothlorien and his voice had me mighty stuck, I'm wondering if I should include my explanation for where Arwen is, or just leave her out entirely.
> 
> x


	10. Chapter 10

_What fear there is in you…_  The voice in her head had whispered to her. All through their nights in the wood, she felt as though she were in a different life, her wound no longer throbbing and breaking open but healing and resting, her mind stiller, her heart less burdened and the tear tracks on her face drying at last. They'd made a steady path half the way from the mountain, ever watery and wet and she'd hidden, kept her head down not to show them. She wept for Gandalf, she knew, but there was so much else she could no longer contain alongside it.

The Lady of Woods words had not left her thoughts while she bathed beneath the safety of her trees, the silver water cool and sweet, seeming more magic here than on the banks of the same river in Rohan. Perhaps it was only in her mind, she mused, perhaps it was a kindness that feels so sweet.

_You truly think they'll find you, Daughter of Rohan, Shieldmaiden of the Mark and Friend of the Fellowship beneath them?_

The lady offered titles, aye, but not a name, no, she had no name. Idis was dead and gone, she knew that sure as anything in all middle earth. What good could another mask and another lie do here, among the lady who could see into her deepest heart? In her heart when Gandalf fell she knew even Hedda was another mask, thrown up to hide behind; a false strength and callousness. She tried to find comfort in that when their path led them from the leaves. The fading sun lit the river and their boats upon it, and nameless but not numb she accepted the garb of Lothlorien in its place, the rich green cloak and brooch proclaiming them a friend of the elves, a friend neither Hedda nor Idis would never have been.

_One day all the world will find you worthy, Thandrîs._

_Perhaps,_ she thought, looking away from Galadriel's gaze,  _when all is done you may take on a new name._

Beneath the trees of Lorian all had taken rest, each of them calmed by the Lady of Light's words or the peace in her borders, but now, on the river with their journey before them again she felt anything but calm. There was a thrill in her, a fire stoked by the ladies belief, by Aragorn's calloused hands upon her own and the cool waters that had cleaned her of grief and silence. Shield Queen, the lady had called her, and Shield Queen she would try to be, not Princess, not Maiden, Server or Hired Sword.

Her clothes, torn, bloody and ripped were cast aside, the mark of Rohan no longer upon her collar and instead, she'd put on Hedda's hidden leathers, butter soft and comforted by them. At the bank, their lady had met them, grand and beautiful and brighter than starlight. To them, she gave supplies, sweet elvish waybread, eleven rope, and their cloaks to hide them on their quest. To Legolas and the hobbits she gave sharp knives and strong bows, and to Gimli, she gave three golden hairs from her own head. When the lady came to her, shuffling at the end of their line the witch reached out a pale hand, laying it on Hedda's cheek to tilt up her gaze and meet her there. In her head Galadriel spoke again, offering her words to Hedda alone.

_Many names you will wear… but you will be loved for all of them._

The siren voice promised her, making her eyes fall shut, nodding minutely and trying to memorise the very feeling of her words as she drew her cool hands away. "And to you, Thandrîs," she said, took a package wrapped in cloth from her attendant, bringing to light two gleaming silver vambraces. The slim, light metal was scrolled with delicate flowers and branches, enabled with delicate white blooms. "Some protection on your path from the vaults of Lothlorien." She took them, thinking them a gift too queenly for her own skin, the metal work ancient and, to her eye, of dwarven make but elvish in design. " _I am not worthy of these,"_ she breathed, the words a whisper the lady did not answer. Galadriel believed differently, she knew. She strapped them to her arms slowly, wanting to get used to the weight sooner, finding this armour less heavy than she had imagined any would feel. Beyond their party Aragorn spoke quietly with another, plotting their path or speaking of the dangers on every side.

They were away sooner than she would wish, but it was necessary to leave to peace of the wood before they were ready. Their night had been strange, slow and heady and healing, even in the wake of their shared grief, but her own shameful weeping on the mountainside had exhausted her of feeling for the moment. Such pain she could feel again when there were not so many around her when her tears would not draw discomfort and make her look so weak again when all of them needed strength now. The river beneath them flowed fast, an icy grey ribbon of the Anduin and she knew it cut along the edge of all Rohan, through the wide plains of the horse lords and further to Gondor. This was the river that filtered the far fields and watered the wild horses of her land, and it felt strange and too sudden to realise how close they were.

When she returned there, to the taverns of Gondor or Rohan or wherever next she turned her head when all was done, there she'd grieve for Gandalf the Grey, with ale in hand and strangers around her, no name to her face. When she was free. As she got closer she felt the rogue slipping more and more to hand, and when she spoke she had Hedda's words. Even her clothes belonged to her, not Idis, and no one questioned the change in her. Galadriel had promised her they would not hate her for Hedda, and she tested them now.

Their party was quiet, sober and sad as they left the safety of the wood. Far the rowed, speaking of the creatures following behind them, stopping when it was safe and keeping quiet and quick. The land was lush and green, tinged warm gold and red with the season and a late fog wrapped around their crafts as before her tall stone kings guarding their way came into view. Their arms stretched out to the flowing river and their small boats, taller than half the towers of Gondor. "Stars," She whispered, seeing the fabled kings that had once stood guard over Gondor's outer border.

"The Aragonath…" Aragorn whispered, more to himself to her, but she heard him across the water none the less. She had heard tales of these statues but never had she come up this river, never had she seen them herself. "Long have I desired to look upon the kings of old… my kin." He was struck, his oar stilled, the boat carrying he, Frodo and Sam slowing to look more upon them. She could not call out to him, only slowing her own oars in the boat she shared with Boromir, silent and sullen and just as enraptured as the dark ranger. She gave them both some peace to gaze upon his forebears and Boromir's kings of old, rowing their way slowly through the gap between their carved feet.

"The old guards of Gondor… meet the new," She murmured, uncertain in herself but wanting to offer them something to stop the loss and memory swirling in their eyes, twin faces, twin fears she guessed. The words were meant for both of them as she laid a hand on Boromir's shoulder. Much she could say of him, but a protector he was by nature, and this was a title he needed as much as Aragorn. She knew that much of titles. By blood and station, this was their world, in days passed Rohan's royalty had bowed before King and Steward both. They looked at her, their eyes searching and saying such utterly different things. Her words had cut both of them to the bone and she knew not what either wanted. Aragorn looked at her, incomprehensible but defensive, muscle in his jaw jumping at the very thought. He did not deny it though, and neither did he claim it. Boromir looked at her, all open where Aragorn was shut off and stone, Boromir looked lost, heart bleeding. Instead, he exhaled as if the stone kings had shocked him silent. Both could sense the tension inside her, gaze flicking between them both and settling on her own feet, rowing faster to pass more quickly by. "And where are stone Shieldmaidens warring with them? This is Rohan's land now." Boromir eventually asked, offering a joke to lighten them perhaps, though his gaze was back, still turned towards the pass and what of the stone could still be seen.

"Rohan has no grand statues. Only tombs." She admitted, and their boat was silent a while longer.

Hours later they pulled their boats up on the stony shore as their group spoke again of their plans. This place was cold, strange and broken, a bank was strewn with the ruin of statues and an ancient fort Aragorn called Amon Hen. Around her, their warriors spoke of bogs and sharp rock, of roads and Mordor, a path she already knew, a path she had already offered all she knew of. Besides their small fire, Sam spoke of a girl of the Shire, of his Rosie and she was glad to overhear it, though her face was turned away, unwilling to be drawn into it.

"Moment I saw 'er, Merry, I may as well 'ave chosen my ribbons for the party tree that very day," He grinned, wide and sweet and bringing some light into their quiet gathering. It made her lips quirk to think of the sweet hobbit and his beau.

"Oh yes, Sam," Pippin teased, his pipe between his teeth and a grin parting his lips "And I've heard this how many times exactly? Hundreds? Thousands?" He snickered, shaking his head, words melting into Merry's as they teased his lovesick heart. "When we're in the Shire I'll pick your flowers myself if it'll stop your blubbing!"

"Leave off you two!" Sam snapped, cuffing them each on their curly heads and a smile lifted her cheek "Just 'cos neither of you 'ave found anything more 'an fireworks and mischief yet."

"Come now Masters Hobbits," Gimli laughed, his belly laugh free and bright as he sat beside them on their fallen log before the fire. "I know hobbits lasses are many and sweet, they're not like to be able to resist four heroes returning home!" He grinned, slapping them so hard on the shoulders they near fell, denying his words. "Trust me, Lads, I know from experience," He teased, and even as she looked away she could hear the mischievous light in his voice. "Aye, don't think I heard nothin' of your own lady, Aragorn!" Gimli pounced on the ranger, pulling him into the discussion though he seemed reluctant, holding up his palms in innocence. "Galadriel spoke of her at the river!" At that, all eyes fell upon the ranger, even Hedda's, unable to resist her interest. Who then, had the ranger's heart? She had to temper her own twist at that, to think their guarded leader was promised as well. Like most of this party, she guessed, if not wed then promised. Such was the way of old names and old blood. He would be king of Gondor one day, and Gondor must have a queen.

"Gimli -" Legolas interjected, his own face curved down, seeming utterly uncomfortable.

"Once maybe, but no longer," He said, keeping his words simple, unaffected but there was history in his words and old hurt. A story Legolas seemed to know, if his frown, his pity and the hand on the ranger's shoulder was any indication. Her eyes followed every action. Did he love her still? She wondered, unable to deny her interest. Did she leave or did he? "It was long ago,"

"And what of you, Lass? What man waits for you in Rohan? Is it a warrior to fight with or a talker to temper ye?" He grinned, teasing her and she sobered quickly, straightening her back and swallowing. It was as if his words were a light and they shone upon her, half the group looking for her reply and it seemed Gimli guessed he should have stayed quiet. She felt some guilt that she had done the same to Aragorn and all his secrets only moments before.

"No man, Master Dwarf, I'd rather do my fighting and my talking myself." She said with a shrug, hoping all would move along but Pippin would not be silent, making her clench her jaw. Beneath her long sleeves, the muscles in her arms jumped, unable to sit comfortably still as he spoke. "But you're a princess, Milady, aren't you supposed to marry a prince or a lord?"

"A long time ago that may have been so, Pippin." She said, trying to temper the snap in her voice as she scuffed her boots, feeling every eye upon her in that moment. Boromir's felt like fire on her. This was his question as well, she was certain. She'd never given him any real answer to the question why. "No. Not the marrying kind, me," she said, eyes on the stones beneath her boots, striving to look as though it was nothing at all to her. As if she felt nothing for her choice. "I'd make a poor wife anyhow," she said stiffly, face tinged pink but she shrugged, trying to smile, trying to make a mockery of it.  _Again and again, you speak false, half-truths he can see through so easily._ She said those words so long ago, in the cold and dark, surrounded by the white marble of Gondor's halls. She kept her eyes firmly down and heard Sam cuffing the hobbits cousins again - clearly, he was able to sense her discomfort better than they were. She didn't even look up when she heard the scuffle, only saw the swish of his cloak from the corner of her eye as Boromir swept into the wood.  _Again and again, you offer him nothing he can believe._

She let him take a moment for his own, talk of women and lovers surrounding her lightly, the dwarf filling the silence quickly. Boromir liked his peace, and his shoulders had looked hunched and burdened since daybreak, perhaps the wood would calm him. Her words would only have stoked his anger higher.  _Again and again, you let him think your own failures are his._ She gave him some time, but soon she followed behind him, keeping some pace behind and tracing his heavy tracks in the fallen leaves and broken ruins. She had not made to speak with him since Moria, and it had weighed on her. She could feel the heaviness, the darkness growing in him, the exhaustion and fear in his eyes. He needed some answer from her, she could not handle the weight of his hurt on her shoulders alongside the queries of her friends.  _It was her that had ruined their vows, their promise, it was her that cracked the fragile peace growing between their lands._ His gaze on the statues had spoken of feelings she knew were buried in there, thoughts of his home, of his father and his people. Thoughts of protecting them all.  _It was he that had surely taken the blame when she was not there to take it upon herself._ When she'd looked upon him on the bank she'd seen anger and hurt she'd never known upon him.  _it is time to tell him why you left, Girl, time to tell him some truth._

But when she found him in a ruin he was screaming at the wind.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're so close to Rohan I can taste it, I've been waiting to write the Two Towers since I started this,
> 
> Let me know what you think, x


	11. Chapter 11

_"You will betray us! You go to your death and the death of us all. Curse you! Curse you and your Halflings!"_ He spat, writhing on the dirt floor, the captain fallen, strange and cursed. When she looked at him she felt cold, unable to do more than freeze, still and staring. He was taken by the ring, ensnared by it. She had come too late for him. Seeing him so she froze, her broken nails digging hard into her palms as she tried to make sense of him, but seeing her friend so fallen made her want to scream. Eventually, she moved, and when she moved she ran to him, fell to her knees and reached for him, shouting his name. He flinched away from her as if the very touch of her made him sick. She tried to pin his bucking form and spoke her own name, but he would not look at her, seeming to see right through her. " _Boromir_  be calm! It's me - it's me,  _please_!" She shouted, hands cupping his face, trying to make him see her as he cursed the hobbit who was nowhere to be seen. He was shaking and she feared he'd hurt himself. In one swift move, she pinned him down with all her strength and weight of her above him. "Be still my friend!"

"And who are  _you_? Who are you but a  _stranger_?" He cursed her, the words like another cut. "Another  _ghost_ whispering _lies_?" He keened, higher, reaching, knotting his gloved fist in her hair and shaking her. She cried his name, screaming at him to stop. In all their years he'd never hurt her, his words could be cutting but his hands ever gentle, treating her like the princess he thought her. He swung them, covering her body with his own and pressing her into the dust. His eyes were wide, mouth wet and teeth bared like a crazed animal as his other hand folded around her throat, shaking her again. "You have the same name, the same dagger but you are not Idis!" He shouted and his words could have cut out her heart. After all these years he understood so little and yet every little piece of her.

"I'm not her - I'm not Idis anymore but you know  _me_!" She screamed, words cutting through her throat, her eyes wet. She could not give him time to pause, time to keep pressing down on her throat as his madness took him. She brought her hand to the sheath of her dagger, breath short and drawing it. He knew only half of her, knew her oldest, buried, most honest selves and yet nothing true at the same time. In her, he saw a shade with the face of someone long dead, and she could not let him meet the ghost she was now. With one sharp action, she brought the heavy butt of it upon his temple, shattering his hold on her, knocking him away and she clambered clumsily to her feet above him. He was shocked, shaking as if he hardly knew who or where he was. Blindly he called for Frodo, crying out for him, but she was gone, tearing into the forest, dirt and leaves clinging to her elvish cloak. Behind him, he called for Idis as well.

The girl ran, disorientated and afraid, pain piercing her to the very bone until she could run no longer, panting against the bark of an old tree. She gripped it, seeking her strength, hardly able to breathe. In her mind, in her heart, she felt rage, pain and hate, unlike anything. A voice whispered at her to hurt him, hunt him, to keep herself buried. In the dark back of her mind, she hated him for making her hate herself so. All her wild years she'd been able to push it down, be someone different, something else without reprimand. All these years she'd been free to run, now  _he_  tried to trap her again, she snarled, rage bubbling inside her.  _End him, end him and you could be anyone._

It was the horn of Gondor that brought her back. The sound a sonorous call that shocked her into the bright day so strongly she hardly knew where she was, all that hate inside her fading away. Did she know him so little know she had barely noticed that he carried it? The pride of his house he'd dreamt of, shown her, sounded for her in the halls of Minas Tirith. The horn of Gondor brought her back.

Again and again, it echoed through the dappled wood and she followed it without thought, called back. She ran, leaping over fallen trees and ancient ruins, breath short and eyes as wild as his had been. In her path there lay a foul army taller, stronger, faster and able to walk in the light of the wood they were painted with the white hand of Saruman. Before her, somewhere close the horn sounded again but she could not come her sword pierced straight through the bare head of one monster. Its black blood could not stain her black leathers anymore, and she was glad for it. She did not want to carry their filth as she fought through their numbers. They brawled hard, slashing at her with fierce blade and axe when they saw her coming. Her shield took the brunt of every lunge, paint chipping off its face as she ducked, snapping out her sword to cut at the tender meat of their weak shins and inner thighs, cutting tendon and artery until they fell screaming before her to be finished by her blade.

" _Boromir_!" She shouted, cutting one through the heart with a desperate slash, her whole body turning to avoid another blow and putting the first in its path. She leapt over their bodies, wounded, twitching but immobile and made for him, following his call until she came to a low valley where he battled a dozen alone. She near slipped down the soft earth, quiet behind them as they roared and took him on. Keeping low, unashamed she slashed at their ankles, severing feet until they fell and necks when they did. Behind him crept a small creature, skinny, screaming in his black speech something foul and without thought she loosened her grip on her shield, tossing it toward her friend. Despite its heft and the action, he caught it, using the momentum of her own throw to bring the face down hard across its ugly face, shattering the beats skull with satisfaction. She could have roared, impressed and blood pumping from battle but behind him came another. A beast bigger than most, dark and bloody, a palm print across his brow and bow in his hand. "Shield!" She shrieked, seeing it draw its weapon.

She saw no arrow fly but saw it sunk into the wood of her shield in her friend's hand, raised to shade his unarmored chest. The arrow was heavier and thicker than any she'd ever seen, but she had no time to think while she was stood at his back, cutting out the throat of a beast that brayed and screamed in her face, knives aloft. Pippin and Merry were beside them, stabbing, untrained but desperate at any fallen foe. They made good throat cutters beside her, helping her finish any survivors she wounded. Had she been able to turn she might have seen it. Had she been able to look on her friend or guard her own back - had she not trusted Boromir so, and turned away from him she would have seen the beast too close, sword swinging wide and headed for her back, sickly sharp and shining with black blood already. Had she not trusted Boromir so, she might have seen him shield her from the blow, and the bolts he took to his uncovered chest because of it.

Behind her, she could only hear Pippin and Merry's screams, hear the war cries of many and the smell of blood, thick and red and iron in the air between them. In her haze, her mind was only upon weak links in armour and full, bloody veins she could not turn, not without losing her head to the beasts she fought. When she heard the hobbits scream she kicked out, foot finding his armoured thigh and putting all her weight upon him until he faltered, the blade a bare few inches from her but enough to bury her knife in his neck.

She swung looking for the next enemy but none she found. Around her lay only the dead and she gasped, her shoulders lifting with the very effort of it. She spun, fast and panicked to find herself seemingly alone in sudden silence, looking for Boromir, looking for her shield, but when she looked down, she saw him upon the floor with two long shafts feathering his chest and his eyes, wide, open and afraid.

"Idis - please," he gasped, his words pained him so dearly she wanted to look away. Instead, she knelt beside him, hands going to his face which looked so pale, his gold-red hair glowing in the late sun. Her hands were on his wounds without thought, pressing around the arrow shafts to staunch the flowing blood as if she could save him from this.

"No - Boromir -  _no_ ," She moaned, the sound weak, reaching over him to her fallen shield, the shaft of one arrow still buried in its wood, only the head of it, deadly sharp and black still buried there. "You didn't have your shield - you  _needed_  it - you should never fight unguarded," she gasped, the lesson he'd given her in her girlhood falling from her lips in an instant, the words paining her as well. He reached for her face but she felt wild, as mad as he had been when he'd hurt her. His touch brought her no comfort, only making her feel sick and scared. There was a scuffle beside her and Aragorn found them, huddled in the centre of their battle and Boromir reached his other hand to the ranger.

"They took the little ones!" He cried out, and she'd think to hate herself later for letting them go. Boromir had let an arrow come between the Uruks and the hobbits, she had not noticed they were gone for protecting him. For  _failing_  to protect him. "I went to Rohan -" he gasped out, his body shaking softly, forcing out his words. "To find you, to bring you back or know why,"

She shook her head, wordless, her excuses and her lies knotting her throat. Water filled her eyes and her body shook. She'd seen hurt, wounds and pain, but never had she seen a friend fade like this.

"Where have you - you been? Not there - you were not there." She took his hand, holding it to her cheek and she nodded, barely able to see him through her wet eyes. "You left because of me," he gasped out, blood clotting in the corner of his lips, unable to speak the words she had always dreaded to hear from him. This question had hung between them all the thousands of steps they'd taken since Rivendell, every day she'd danced by him to avoid it. This question had been always there, in every tavern brawl she'd fought and in every battle, he'd rode in.

"Not you, Boromir, I didn't leave because of you. I was your friend then - I am your friend  _still_!" She promised him, the words weak, wobbling but he seemed gladdened to have some true answer from her. He'd seen through every lie on her lips about that day. This at least was true. His nodded his pale face and turned, breathless and desperate to Aragorn beside them, leaving her to scrub the tears from her eyes with her bloody hands. "There's so much I need to tell you."

Aragorn pressed his palms to the captain's chest, seeming for all the world to be as desperate to save him as she was. His hands were red, trying to stop the blood as she had. Aragorn was a healer at heart, but even he could not heal her friend. "Frodo…where is Frodo?" Boromir struggled to say, more shame, more sadness pinching his face.

Aragorn looked down at him, the steward's sons blood painting his hands and sleeves, his face full of a weakness shared between the three of them then. "I let Frodo go." She looked at him, looking at the dark-haired man she knew so little and she swallowed, looking away.

"Then you did what I could not - I tried to take the ring from him."

"The ring is beyond our reach now." He said, looking at both of them, and she was glad for it. She could not lose another to its power, she could not lose Gimli or Legolas to the rings cruelty and madness. She could not protect her oldest friend from foe or power, how could she protect a king of men?

"Forgive me, did not see … failed you all." He gasped, his words growing weaker, shorter. She shook her head, words sticking in her throat as she looked to the leaves beneath them, Boromir's hand still clutched between her own. She could not speak, her whole body shaking weakly in the breeze around them.

"You have  _never_  failed me,' She promised him, her hand tight on his, a voice more sincere, sharper and more honest than she had sounded in so many years it shocked her. Aragorn met her gaze, and she could not look away, seeing the words written on his face. When she looked at him she knew he was done, his heart slow, sluggish and stopping, wounds too deep and the arrows too deep. Aragorn whispered to the captain, folding his sword into his hand but Boromir reached out, the hand in hears slipping free, seeking out something and without looking she found his horn, letting his hand go and replacing it with the cold symbol of his house.

Beside her Aragorn made a vow to her fallen friend, kingly, wise and good as he was, she felt only rage. Even the numb, nothingness of Gandalf's loss would not return to her now. She had sworn herself no more tears beneath the boughs of Lothlorien, now she kept her promise. She felt raw, exposed, her heart bubbling with things she had not said, with what he'd never know and all the pain she'd wrought.

"I do not know what strength is in my blood, but I swear to you... I will not let the White City fall, nor your people fail…"

"Our people… our people… I would have followed you, my brother, my captain, my King." He breathed, looking to the ranger with such respect she felt ashamed to look upon him this way. "I would have fought with you, my sister." He swore, pushing the horn of Gondor, broken in two into her hands with the last of his strength. When she took it from him she knew he was gone, his fingers loose on the old thing. Hedda breathed deep and bellowed, animal and angry, bringing Boromir's hand closer as if she could rip him herself from the stars.

She stood, legs shaky like a young babe, eyes wide and wet she'd stumbled from him, unable to look at his cold, quiet face. She could say nothing. Her hands knotted in her hair, a loose mess from their battle to ground herself. She took more steps away on shaken feet, barely in control of herself until she felt warm arms opening, sheltering her in the comforting black leather and soft well she knew. When she fell to his knees he fell with her, her head buried in Aragorn's neck and arms knotted around his waist. Regret burned inside her, every lie she'd ever told her friend like an arrow piercing her own tender flesh. All the love she felt for Boromir was hidden, broken and polluted by her failure to trust in him. All these years she'd felt so. Like the scum carried along by the river. The wild years of her life hadn't cleansed her, made her pure again, they'd only added more filth to her flesh.

She'd thought it circumstance that failed her. Now she knew she'd carried it with her, dirtied everyone else along her way. She couldn't run from it.

When her eyes were dry, her throat sore from screaming she stood, finding Gimli and Legolas to her side and they looked at her with kindness she could not accept. But she could not run from it this time. She had to face it now, she had to see the stain on her scrubbed even a little cleaner. She would not survive it if she didn't.

She did not speak as they cleaned and dressed him, his strong body tucked into one of their boats and his sword laid in hand. When she laid his broken horn at his feet the heavy bands around it had come loose along the break in the old horn. In her palm sat the silver and bronze ring of intricate metalwork, worked loose from where it had sat for centuries but still intact. She could not take his horn from him, not when it would sound his coming to his father and to all Gondor, but this she could take. Fitting the broken ring around her wrist and higher until it ringed her bicep with precious, ancient metal. She took a breath, slow, drawing in the cool air around her and the fog still on the river and when she spoke she spoke to each of them.

"I was Idis - once. I've not been her in fifteen years. Gandalf had me hold her name again to join your company." She spoke, her eyes on his face, peaceful, cool and pale as it was she imagined he only slept, head pillowed in the bow of the boat. "Elrond would not have had me - I've not been anyone that matters since last I stood in Medusheld." Her voice shook, fearing to turn to look at them on the bank as she slowly pushed the boat into the water, her feet sinking into the silt at the bottom, holding the boat steady on the current. "I called myself Hedda, and I have no armies to offer you. I haven't seen the golden hall in fourteen years." She turned, letting go of the boat and standing, waist deep in the water, watching him go. She turned, still watching him as she walked back toward them on the bank.

"Boromir knew who I was then. Gandalf who I made myself. Both are gone now, but I'd have you know something of me today." She finally gave them this, a name that felt truer. Maybe it was selfish now, to burden them with her name and past when their path was still so long. Legolas looked at her, his brow furrowed but he reached out a hand, laying it on her shoulder.

"Whoever you may be he cared for you… Hedda." He said, looking into the distance where the boat fell over the falls. When he spoke her name her eyes fell shut. Hedda still felt like a mask, but it was a lighter one to wear. One she could stand a while.

"Aye and whatever name ye have does not change what a talented fighter ye are," Gimli said, a smile weak but kind of his face, knocking his big, stony hand on hers and she smiled despite herself. Aragorn came closer but he said nothing, meeting her eye as he strapped on Boromir's vambraces for his own, carrying him there with him. Meeting his eye, he merely nodded, offering her a small, kind smile. Offering her kindness and calm.

"We should leave," She said eventually, drawing herself up to a greater height. She'd allowed herself a funeral, it was only proper for the captain but she would not betray their quest longer than that. Legolas nodded his head, darting away to a near boat and pushing it into the water, their resolve shaken as she hefted her pack, the fire of the chase growing in her belly.

"Frodo and Sam will have reached the eastern shore!" He said, looking toward them, but his expression fell, his elvish looks twisting into confusion when Aragorn did not move, hardly even looked to him. Hedda knew better, he knew the temptation he had given up when he let Frodo go. "You mean not to follow them?" He said, looking to the ranger, to the king, to their leader.

"Frodo's fate is no longer in our hands. His burden is too heavy for us to carry."

Gimli's emotion was clear in the thickness of his growling voice, "Then it has all been in vain! The Fellowship has failed." His emotions were deeply buried there and the dwarfs strong body seemed bowed toward the bank beneath him as he spoke. Hope dimmed within him.

"Not if we hold true to each other." Said their king, reaching for them, hands laid on the shoulders of the elf and the dwarf and eyes dancing from each of them. "We will not abandon Merry and Pippin to torment and death. Not while we have strength left." She felt a warmth blooming in her chest, heart already seeming to beat faster and bouncing lightly on her toes. "Let us hunt some orc!" He grinned, a wildness apparent in his eyes even there, among their broken group. They would hunt, rough and free across any land, but when she looked to the distance, she knew Rohan lay there, the golden plains stretching for miles between them and Isenguard.

Rohan awaited them.


	12. Chapter 12

Aragorn's face was pressed to the dirt, scenting the mud, listening to minute sounds singing to him through the very earth. This tiny pause was a dream, a rare reprise she took with her hands braced on her thighs, half bent and lungs tight as she watched him hunt. Days had passed, the forest lining the Anduin fading away into rough, endless plains and golden sun. Three days they'd run, three nights as well without food or water or rest across this half-dead scrub and dry grass. It was all she'd seen aside from the backs of a man who never grew tired, an elf with the lightest feet she knew and - when she looked behind and listened - an exhausted, panting dwarf.

For her own, she was faring better, but her body still screamed, belly empty and where Aragorn heard the steps of Uruks she saw and heard nothing but Gimli's complaints and her own head pounding.  _At least,_ she thought to herself,  _while we run this way they are too tired to speak of everything said and done between you._  When Aragorn dug the hobbits broach from the dirt she grinned wide, gladdened to finally see some proof of her own. As each hour pas, each step they took only made her feel the hobbits were a hundred leagues further away.

It seemed it was not only her with such dark thoughts, even the elf had been taken to melancholy as he danced across the dry land. Legolas turned to their dark leader, his eyes alight and his whole body seeming to lighten as he spoke; "they may yet be alive!" Funny, she thought, she had not dared speak her own fear that the Uruks carried corpses with them.

"If they are not I'll cross Middle Earth all over again to avenge my boots," she muttered, voice tight but still, she tried to make them laugh some. Each of them knew she'd run all across the world to find her friends alive and free, but it was becoming difficult to ignore the holes worn beneath the toes of her boots. As they ran, crossing yet one more crest of a high hill they were blinded by the golden sun rising, Hedda's hand rose to shade herself from the glare but stopped, eyes tracing the land.

" _Rohan_." She breathed, looking out across familiar, golden plains. She felt her lithe limbs turn to stone beneath her leathers, eyes staring and far away. How many months had it been since she'd seen these rolling hills? These wild grassy plains stretching out beyond her sight. She hated them, but they were beautiful still. "They are brave to cross these lands - or foolish if this land is still as guarded as it was." She murmured to her party, looking up to see Aragorn's eyes on her face.

"When were you last here?" Aragorn asked quietly, not wanting to push but needing such information from her. Her admittance had likely shaken her position as a master of Rohan's lands, perhaps they believed they were going blindly into this land. She would not have them think so, not every ounce of information could be learned in a kings hall, and taverns held just as many soldiers at days end.

"I was here before I came to the council, I knew more than most. I know the numbers that patrolled and when and where they were raided. If the Uruks have passed this way the riders are disbanded or dispatched far away. Else they fear their masters' power. Rohan holds a wise fear of magic, Legolas and Gimli will likely learn that if we come across its people." She warned them all. Rohan did not host the company of dwarves and men often, and superstition and fairytales were as traded as breeding mares and grain.

"There's something strange at work here." He agreed, standing beside her on the crest, not willing, as the others were unwilling, to push her or even press her to speak when she did not wish to. She'd been quiet often these days and only had she answered to Hedda. "Some evil gives speed to these creatures, sets its will against us. Legolas! What do your elves eyes see?" He called, and the elf perched higher on the rock face, eyes turned to a distance she could not see.

"The Uruks turn Northeast. They are taking the hobbits to Isengard!" He called, bow drawn from his back as if he could feather every monster from this very valley. She smiled up at him, looking into the bright sun but saw no such monsters.

"Saruman indeed." He muttered, looking into the same distance she did, his eyes scanning the golden land for the darkness hidden there, for the shadows over the long grass. Their rest did not last long, and they fled, leaping from rock to rock in their path.

As they crossed the empty, dry plain she could feel it in the ground, and it filled her with a greater dread than an army of Uruks ever could. Her hands fisted, her knife blade drawn without a thought in one hand, the other clenched, nails cutting into her palm. She could feel the thundering upon the ground, drumming into her chest like her very own heartbeat. "Riders come!" She shouted, interrupting Legolas's portents about the clouds and she gripped Gimli's arm, dragging him back to a hiding spot beneath a jutting rock as the sound met all their ears, thundering and horses cresting a hill. She was followed quickly, crouching low at the front of their party to peer at the horsed strangers.

Not just riders, she saw, hidden behind the rock, but an Erod itself, clad in armour, golden and red. She cursed in a whisper, the fellowship beside her as they drove fast, hooves pounding the dry earth. Aragorn turned to her, a question in his gaze. Her eyes were down, palm resting on the pommel of her sword but it was a calculated risk as she looked for sigil or familiar armour. He trusted her in this, she knew, this was her land and home in their eyes, and she must lead them through it, whether she ruled or farmed its lands. "Rides of Rohan - soldiers from the mark," She whispered, "They will help  _you_  if they believe us." She said, and it was enough for the ranger at least. "But likely not a woman."

Most men of of a grand Eored would not know her under any name, though perhaps as a stranger or a story. Were she unlucky maybe some roguish boy that had stumbled into a tavern bed with her may remember a fond and drunken night they'd spent with Hedda. It would be hard to convince them she was, in their eyes, their princess in the company of royalty from distant lands. _I would not believe it._

But if they knew any of her names, no matter how little they thought of a woman warrior, most would see the chipped and broken horse on her shield and know she was of their home. If they were true they'd let them pass, no matter how much they degraded her for it. She had not learned how to pass unnoticed and unmolested all these years without knowing that much. Proud Aragorn fled their hiding spot, putting himself at the mercy of her risk and her fingernails bit into her palm, forming deep crescents in her skin.

"Riders of Rohan! What news from the Mark?" He called to them, a striking figure, dark and cut against the blue sky and yellow grass. They followed behind him, his only strength against the army of horse-lords; a woman, a dwarf and an elf. The riders turned and circled them, heavy, panting horses stained with sweat and clearly worked hard, likely through the night from the look of them and their riders. Quietly she looked them over, seeing new wounds, yet untreated and knew they had known recent battle. Around them, the riders drew their spears and their party shrank somewhat, hands held up in a show of innocence. She turned her gaze to the ground, her hair, unruly and hiding her face. The yellow-red was knotted and dry, loose, ungainly braids keeping the sides from her eyes. Simple, nondescript, but if any knew her to be of Rohan they'd call it a style of their country. Their leader stepped forward and her heart near stopped. Even after all these years, she knew that face, she knew him even with a new, golden beard and helm on his face. Long years had passed, but she knew her cousins face.

"What business does an elf, a man and a dwarf have in the Riddermark?" Spoke the man, spoke Èomer himself before their company. She cursed high heaven, for all her luck in all the world that his was the company that had found them here. Her eyes found the floor, burning into the dead grass hot enough to spark it aflame.

"And who's is the woman?" One of the men closest to her snorted, reaching down from his height to brush away her hair. He looked for her husband, likely, or her betrothed at least. A woman in her position was rare - if she cared for her status here it would be shattered by running with three men alongside her. She'd shouldered those assumptions since womanhood. "The woman is her own." She snarled, knocking his hand away but when she did she showed her face, unhidden from all. Èomer looked on her and she met his eye, jaw clenched tight and unyielding. His face was stricken, pale and still, as if he feared he was going mad as he looked at her. What story of her did he believe? Plenty circled Rohan under her old name. Some thought Idis dead, murdered in Gondor by assassins, by loyalists, by Boromir's true lover. Half the soldiers across this land, for a time, had been ready for war to avenge her. Some said she still walked its streets or married to a commoner in shame. She knew the king and his family had offered a falsehood to keep the peace, that she was their ambassador across distant lands, it was the only reason she'd been allowed in the council that had started all this. How many she had, but what story would suit her here?

" _Cousin_?" He looked at her as if her very face was one he'd imagined dead and gone. "Put down your weapons!" He shouted and slid from his horse, all grace and strength as his feet landed on the ground. He shouldered her friends aside, and they looked to her, awaiting her own orders. She nodded, meeting each of their eyes in turn as Eomer reached for her. He laid his hands upon her shoulders, looking upon her as if to prove she was truly there "You come back to us now," he breathed and she brought her hands to cover his on her arms, nodding gently, uncertain as he was. "All these years, Idis - your father and brother -" he said, so much of the past in his words, and it hurt to think of them. Of the men holding the golden hall. She interrupted him, unable to hear it. "This is Aragorn, son of Arathorn." She brushed his hands from her, praying he would not speak too honestly before her friends. She'd offered them a single truth, aye, but she had so much more to keep buried. Rohan alone felt too much like letting them walk over all her past. "Gimli, son of Gloin and Legolas of Mirkwood." She cleared her throat, taking a step away, finding Aragorn's warmth behind her and his hand, lightly covering her wrist. It seemed the motion calmed her greatly, giving her some strength now to turn up her chin to her cos.

"All are your friends, Èomer, as am I." She said, voice far stronger than she felt as she gestured to each of their party one by one, trying to draw his eye from her. She was wrong to do it, it seemed. It only made his face darken, suspicious and angry. She deserved it, she supposed. He glared at each of them, raising his hand and the spears rose again, digging into their backs no matter how they shouted protests, bearing their own weapons ready for a fight. Her cousin took her by the arm, grip sharp and holding her still as her friends growled, not sure how to treat this threat by her blood. "Who are these men, Cos, is it they who have kept you from us?" He hissed at her, speaking frankly until she shoved his hand from her.

"No one has  _kept_  me, my friends have neither stolen nor dishonoured me. I bring neither danger no disloyalty to our lands," She hissed, knocking away his hand when he reached for her. She could not bare his touch again, his tender hands felt likes hooks, ripping into her skin. His arms may well have been ropes. But she met his eyes, the eyes she had known once and bid he would see the truth there.

Eventually he spoke, looking at her as if she disturbed him, and she bit her tongue around the wound of it. "Saruman has poisoned the mind of the king and claimed lordship over this land. My company are those loyal to Rohan. And for that, we are banished. We are all left of a true and honest Rohan, it seems." He said, scowling darkly at her but she caught his words. Poisoned the mind of the king? "What of the king?" She bid, eyes upon him but he ignored her, still speaking on. He laid accusations at her feet, but when he spoke he spoke to Aragorn, to Legolas, even to Gimli, sneering at her friends.

"The white wizard is cunning, everywhere his spies slip through our nets…" He said, pressing too close to Aragorn, posturing. "perhaps he has cursed you as well, and these your guards." He glowered, gaze finally falling upon her own, tracing her features, trying to see a stranger in her there. "Why else are you here among strangers? Why else would you have such weapons unless you intend to slit throats?" His own hand was upon his sword, his mouth turned down by her look, her company and herself she guessed. She opened her mouth to argue, to hiss her own insults but it would get them nowhere. She had well deserved this lack of trust in his eye, she was surprised he even knew her at all in truth, and when he spoke again she looked away, unwilling to hear his truth now. "We thought you  _dead,_ Idis _,_ why else would you return in such shadow and shame?"

"Better dead than dealing with your stupidity," She snapped before silencing herself, her eyes flickering to the ground and she it her tongue hard. Her temper would not help them here, but around her family she had nothing else to offer. Eventually, Aragorn spoke, filling the silence she could not and reached for her, his palm stilling her. His hand felt warm against her shoulder, the weight a comfort that grounded her there, with her friends and not far away in old memories. "We are no spies. We track a band of Uruk-hai westward across the plains. They have taken two of our friends captive." He raised his other hand against the spear in his back and winched slightly as the soldier jabbed it sharply.

"Put your spears down!" She snapped, eyeing the zealous rider with cold eyes, "Spill a drop of their blood and I'll see you buried beneath these hills by sundown." Her voice was venom, and the riders obeyed, seemingly as uncertain as she was about her position here. Did she rule them as Eomer did? By all accounts she was better titled than even her cousin, by all accounts she was the daughter of its king and they did not disobey her, snapping to attention and raising their weapons from her friends. Aragorn's hand, warm squeezed her shoulder, and had she looked behind she would have seen her company sharing smirks, proud at her defence.

Eomer looked at her again, more questions, more accusations in his eyes but he admitted the truth, at last, meeting the Rangers eye. "The Uruks are destroyed. We slaughtered them during the night."

"But there were two hobbits, did you see two hobbits with them?" Gimli hollered, and all their company seemed to circle the prince, standing close to bombard him and his army with questions.

"They would be small, only children to your eyes." He words were kind, soft and sad they seemed to beg for an answer other than the one they were certain to get. Such seemed to cut through even Eomer and he looked to the ground as if he wished his answer were different.

"We left none alive."

"Burned?" She asked of him, knowing it was the proper way to dispose of an enemy hoard, but an unkind way for sweet hobbit to die. They should have been buried in this golden grass, in tombs and atop hills. Her hobbit friends should not be ash upon dry and dead grass, scattered in the wind.

Èomer looked away and whistled low, calling two steeds forward. "Hasufel! Arod! May these horses bear you to better fortune than the former masters." He said, offering them mounts finer than most, an honour few would know without joining the Riddermarks ranks. Aragorn took their reins, though his gaze was far away, all the fellowship silent and sad in their grief. Legolas looked to the distance, to a pyre and a pillar of smoke he could see better than they. Eomer reached for her again, laying his hand gently upon her shoulder, seeming to take a moment to stir his courage or his thoughts enough to speak. "All this time Idis, your father…" Èomer turned away, as if he could not finish, as if he had secrets of his own and mounted his horse once more. "See your father, Idis, he and his halls are much changed…" he trailed off, looking to the distance, to where she knew the golden hall lay. "Look for your friends, but do not trust the hope. It has forsaken these lands. There is darkness and poison here to readily now." He bid them goodbye, unable to look at her again it seemed as he called for his Eored. as they sailed away across the grass, he left them with their mounts and bitter words to mull. Her friends did not question her cousins words, seeming to know well enough to leave her be as they mounted their new horses, their hurry too great to question her much and she was glad this was often the case between them. None of them had time for the past when the road before them came so quickly.

The smoke was not hard to follow, its vile, dark plume a stain on the pale sky and their horses knew the land well enough to hardly need their instruction. The ride was fast, her hands hooked into Aragorn's belt to steady her way as she sat behind him on the saddle. So lost was she could not even think so be gladdened to mount a warhorse, steady and strong beneath her.


	13. Chapter 13

The battleground was tramped, golden grass scorched and stained, rode down from heavy footsteps and hooves upon it. The pyre was tall as they were, ash and broken bodies, scorched armour left behind and smoke pouring from it in the breeze. It was a stain on the golden land, but a stain that would rot eventually and heal.

Pain and weight threatened her, to think of her friends, small, sweet, mischievous as they were upon that pyre had her legs shaking softly as she slipped from the horses back. Her hand went to the circlet on her upper arm, warm from the sun and her skin, the unyielding gold and silver calmed her, the heat of skin against her own. "They piled the bodies to burn and yet not one saw a body was so small?" She queried eventually, perhaps trying to quell her fears, perhaps simply to speak and more to herself than any other as she wrinkled her nose against the vile stink. Far away she could see the freshly turned earth, near smell the warm mud where fallen warriors of Rohan were buried. White rocks marked their graves, beside their battle, as was the custom in such dark times. Èomer would not have his men put to the pyre. She looked into the eyes, cold and glassy of an Uruk, its head impaled upon a spear sunk in the ground.

It was a warning and a vile, clear one at that. Rohan would not suffer these creatures to live, but if they wasted time to sever and erect this warning, to bury their own company, why would they not look on the beasts they'd slain? She doubted a rider of the mark would have let a hobbits body burn here with them.  _They would not send them off so unkindly,_  she thought,  _it is not the Eorling way._  Behind her, Aragorn screamed and she turned to see him, knelt on the grass in pure rage and pain. He had fallen to his knees before the pyre and it tore her heart to see him so. Legolas whispered elvish prayers and Gimli had a charred and burnt belt in his hand, all of them scattered and swallowing up their sadness. She went to them, lost in her own thoughts but she laid a hand upon their leader's shoulder, squeezing him gently and feeling his hand cover hers. His skin was warm, fingers squeezing her own as if he did not want her to let go. She turned to find him looking at her, his light eyes wrecked and sad.

"The piled them one by one here, and yet none felt Pippin and Merry, light and unarmored as they were?" She murmured, half to herself but Aragorn heard her and he turned, his gaze upon her face as she looked into the pyre. She knew her brows were furrowed, unable to believe it. "They'd not burn prisoners, not one would shame a captive this way." Still, she was near speaking to herself, afraid to let them hope and to shatter them again if she was wrong.

From the corner of her eye, she saw him move, hand leaving her own and his head spinning, searching the ground. The tracker found his tracks, a smile overtaking his grief, shouting for them all to hear as she followed behind him. "A hobbit lay here, and the other! They crawled…" he continued, on hand and knees following some tiny tracks in the dirt, hidden among a thousand more. "Their hands were bound and… their bonds were cut." He breathed, holding a broken rope up, his eyes alighting her breath caught in her throat, unable to fully believe the possibility before them but hope clouding her judgment. "They fled from the battle - they fled into -"

" _Fanghorn_." She whispered, dread colouring her voice and all her hope shattering into a thousand smaller pieces. "They may have been safer in this battle than in Fanghorn," She breathed, a hand going to her sword without thought. They were not safe there, she knew, but what choice did they have? She walked into the dark, knowing her friends would follow behind.

In her own quests, she'd delved into the haunted forest for perhaps a day, though it was so dark beneath the canopy she had near lost track hour to hour, only timing it by the ache in her belly. The haunted forest was bleak, that much was certain, and it was a gnarled land overgrown and over wild. It was those very things that had made her skim its floor before, tracking some the beasts and ghosts said to hide here and explore the ancient world. Danger lurked here, she would not deny, but she had courted the danger here and it had never caught her before. The forest made her feel free and mad as she picked through the roots. "Heed your steps, there are tales of vines and roots that move to trip you if you walk here," She said, but there was a grin on her lips, a small, nervous energy and fear she knew well here amongst the Eorling wood.

Their walk was slow, quiet through the forest for a time, but it seemed this stillness was the first pause they'd had in days. It was fair, she supposed, that her friends had questions for her. "Your cousin… Èomer." Legolas's voice broke through her thoughts and she looked up. Before her her friends looked at the elf with trepidation, and she as if she'd shatter, the very thought making her frown. "He did not trust you?" Legolas asked, at last, seemed to have been mulling for too long over Èomer's words and she sighed, tucking her wild hair behind her ears. She considered a moment, before deciding the truth was all she could think to offer.

"He's right not to. Women do not fight in Rohan, Legolas - the Shieldmaidens are dead and gone. And I suppose he thought there was… misconduct between us, if not evil." She offered, face twisting in embarrassment as she tried to skirt around the obvious impropriety that all of Rohan would imagine between them. It was mad of course, she was in the most proper company in all the world she could imagine, though she'd no virtue or propriety left to protect. In the taverns of Gondor, she'd known men and women that would shock her cousin, but she'd made her choices long ago. It had felt as permanent to lose her maiden title as it had to lose her name, to banish the pure and untouched princess from her mind.

"Your name, you mean?" He queried, seeming not to understand Eorling sensibilities and her face flamed red. Aragorn's face was turned away but his cheeks were lifted, hiding his amusement Gimli hid nothing, a barrel laugh in his throat as they strode through the wood. Neither of them, traitorous as they were would help her here and she scowled at them each, in turn, raising her arms and throwing them down in a show of maidenly woe.

" _No_  Legolas," A part of her was not surprised that impurity would never cross his mind, he was princely in everything, in his every step. He'd likely never even thought of such impropriety. Around her they laughed and she with them. "He knows nothing of that. I expect he imagined one of you was either my lover or my kidnapper." She was not normally discomforted speaking of such, but around them and their potential judgement, she wanted to move past this quickly. The tips of the elves ears seemed to redden, and Gimli and Aragorn were snickering to themselves - but it seemed Legolas was their joke, not her.

"Rohan loves their dramas and their tales," She said with a small grin, "the land is dry and dull, so any mystery is turned into something all the more exciting, no matter how little sense it makes."

Aside from their honour, kindness and aloofness, they'd barely never touched her in anything other than friendship. Men did not want warrior women. Men did not want women strong and scarred as she was. Men with titles, wealth and or weapons of their own avoided her, scorned her and shamed her when she came close, much less dared to smile their way. By the rule of Gondor and Rohan's lords, that these three men accepted her, sword in hand at all was shocking. In Rohan, men liked her without sword or shield but with a smile on her lips, and when she was without she had their attention. As what she was and always had been before them, she was hardly even a woman, she was sure, their touches innocent and ones of friendship.  _Except_ … she wondered to herself softly, brow furrowing a moment,  _except Aragorn's hands on your skin in Moria and beneath the boughs of Lothlorien. He'd touched, it seemed, to touch, to heal._ She was still smiling when she found herself looking at him, wanting to see what he thought of her show more than the others. When she turned her eye to him he met her gaze, making her look away sharply but she could feel his eyes on her, and he did not turn away. She knew not what it meant, but she knew she'd felt those eyes heavy upon her often. How would it feel, she wondered, when all was done, to cast a smile and not a sword toward him?

They walked further away and she stopped her line of shameful thinking. He was a king and his eye was already caught, heart already given to his stranger elloth. She should not think such things.  _You would disgust him._ If the elloth he loved true would not have him, his hand would exist to make a match for his kingdom.

"And what of your mystery, Lassie?" Gimli asked, interrupting her thoughts and she was glad for it. "All these years there's been no princess - but I never heard tell of it, dead or living."

"Aye rightly too, Gimli. Seems Èomer and the king thought me dead, but in the lowlands, half of Rohan thinks I went to East to negotiate for oliphaunt Tusks and spices. The other half thinks I'm learning to heal in Rivendell." She said eventually, choosing her words very carefully. In some way she was scared to offer them even this, it was more than she'd told any but Gandalf, and here in the open, the melding of these lives made her feel exposed.

"If Rohan thought their princess dead in Gondor any chance of an alliance would be lost." Aragorn spoke gently, his eyes heavy on her. It seemed in this dark place, they were using her own stories to fill the dull quiet and overbearing shadows. It set her as much on edge as their surroundings, shoulders slightly high and hand going to the silver and gold band around her bicep. The metal served to remind her of Boromir, of his anger and his care. She would likely never be forgiven by most, but to know Boromir had not hated her there, at the end, was almost enough.

"Rohan and Gondor near went to war when I left. Both thought the other was the reason for their alliance breaking, seems confusion steadied both their hands. But if the stories are believed I won't make the first dead king's daughter come back from death or exile -" She began her tale to distract them, a shieldmaidens name on her tongue and her tale bloody and brilliant. She had plenty of Eorling stories, of maidens missing and eternal in the bark of trees and stolen children, but when the trees seemed to whisper and groan to one another she stopped, thinking the noises and Legolas's tales more real than her own. In all her wandering, she'd not come so far into the forest, she'd not heard the trees speaking to one another. Beyond her, Aragorn and Legolas led them, speaking to one another in whispered Sindarin that set her teeth on edge. One hand went to the pommel of her sword, quick and ready to draw, the other unsheathed her short knife, drawing it slowly.

When Legolas spoke she shivered, turning her eyes all around her. " _The White Wizard approaches."_ She took a step closer to them all, closing the ranks of their group into a tight square, guarding one another backs from the stranger. "Do not let him speak. He will put a spell on us!" Aragorn whispered his warning. She wondered what he knew of wizards if mortal weapons could even hurt this magic, but they had no other choice, all of them ready with their own. "We must be quick."

When they turned her teeth were bared, a low growl burning in her throat and her short knife sailing into the heart of a blinding light, so pure and white her eyes watered, sure she'd never see anything but that light again. Their weapons were as weak as she'd feared, burning, missing, falling from loose fingers, her own knife lost somewhere in that light and she lamented that loss.

"Where are they?" Aragorn demanded, holding a hand to shade him from the blinding magic before them. She could not bring herself to speak to it, whatever magic this creature had, this was far stronger than she. But when it spoke there seemed kindness there, voice soft and low, like the familiar tones of friendship.

"They passed this way, the day before yesterday. They met someone they did not expect. Does that comfort you?" Aragorn had no such fear, demanding more of the light. Her hand still lay on the butt of her sword, ready to draw it if there was any foe she could reasonably fight.

"Who are you? Show yourself!" And show he did. The light fell away like a curtain over the midday sun, calming to a tender, warm glow of pure, pale light. Before them was the old man she knew, robes of white and hair pure as snow. Her grip on her sword loosened, making her gasp and bring her hands, shaking, to her face. Legolas breathed, looking upon him, lost but bowing his head in kindness, in friendship and in sorrow.

"Forgive me. I mistook you for Saruman." He spoke, and Hedda knew that Fanghorn was indeed a place of ghosts, a place of the living and the dead. A tale she'd heard years ago said Fanghorn was the place between death and life. A place where some may slip through the dawn light and come back.

"I am Saruman. Or rather Saruman as he should have been." At the mention of the wizards name, her own eyes widened, taking in the old man she had known and yet did not know at all. Could this be another of Saruman tricks? Èomer had imagined her a ghost of his creation, was such cruelty possible here? The wizard spoke, his voice thrumming through her, reminding her of hearth and ale and excitement, of pipe smoke and magic.

"Through fire. And water. From the lowest dungeon to the highest peak, I fought him, the Balrog of Morgoth. Until at last, I threw down my enemy and smote his ruin upon the mountainside. Darkness took me. And I strayed out of thought and time. Stars wheeled overhead, and every day was as long as the life age of the earth. But it was not the end. I felt light in me again. I've been sent back until my task is done."

Their grouping looked at him like a lost star, magic and powerful, shocked beyond reason as one by one they whispered his name, drawing closer to him. "Gandalf? Yes… That's what they used to call me. Gandalf the Grey. That was my name." He could be no trick, she thought, Saruman could not conjure him so. Even here, white and wise, he still seemed half as mad as ever. "I am Gandalf the White. And I come back to you now, at the turn of the tide."

"You are much changed," She breathed, reaching out a hand as if to touch him but not able to bring herself to do it, her hand hovering inches from his forearm. Just looking upon him made her twist, discomforted, fighting against the piece of her heart that loved him still.

"As are you, Hedda - but still I am the same." When he turned that brilliant gaze upon her, she could not look away from him. He spoke her true name here, for all of them without fear. She could not help herself, stepped closer on shaky legs to clasp her hand with his own, to feel his heart thrumming there warm and alive.


	14. Chapter 14

She was a skilled rider, that much was clear as she rode Arod hard before them, fading from view over the crest of a high hill. It was wise, he supposed, that she go ahead to ease their way. If all her family thought her dead it would be unwise to shadow her return and explanations with three strangers of different races and a deathless wizard. Èomer alone had accused her, though it seemed she cared little for that assumption. But still, Aragorn wished she had stayed beside them. He did not like to think of her going alone into the poison Gandalf and Èomer said haunted Edoras. Perhaps even a princess alone could not heal it, but he looked to the distance for the shadow of her, wishing her safe journey and fewer secrets when they met again. Their party was not far behind, but even Shadowfax could not run as fast as she when he carried both Legolas and Gandalf on his back. Hasuful carried Aragorn and Gimli, his flanks strong, shining with sweat but they were war horses bred and true, the pride of Rohan carrying them towards the heart of its kingdom.

As she fled he looked for her long after she was gone. He had known she had some secrets left within her, that much was clear in her very bearing. Hedda, she called herself now, and the name seemed to soothe her. As it calmed her he was glad to call her that, the name rolling over his tongue and a little more of her open to him. This was her land, and upon it he could see yet more she hadn't said. Hedda she'd been for fifteen long years, not a princess but still haunting these lands like a shadow of one. Her manner made some sense now, her rough friendship, the pipe between her lips and her leathers speaking of towns and cities, of fighting and freedom.

A rogue, he guessed. Free and unbound to any.

Except no longer. Now she was bound the land beneath their feet, their guide through Rohan and its royal house. She was bound to her cousin, no longer able to hide behind the shade of death and a false name - now he knew she lived. She was bound to them too. Would she resent them for it? Would she run, change her name and her self again as she had when she was young, when she'd run from Boromir? The thought was an unkind one, that if they lived beyond their quest she may slip away, take back her wilder ways. He did not want to see the last of her. She'd let herself slip back into them from Lothlorien and Amon Hen, the Shield Queen among them in leather and Idis left behind with her name. But to save them again she had to wear it once more. Idis, a princess, a voice across these lands to disarm an entire Erod from harming them. He'd been unable to hide his grin at her voice when she'd commanded them, words rough, unpolitical but the order of a captain or a queen. And she had been obeyed, even dead, even a stranger she could command the cavalry with her own strength alone.

In Edoras they found a strange land, dry and hot that he'd seen before, but it was a world that seemed more afraid than he had seen before. The people were afraid, dressed in dry wool and cloth, and their faces turned from their party of strangers as they rode through its capitol. When they reached its hall, a hardy, beautiful thing he recognised it from Hedda's tales. Her stories, the knots and patterns she wore were engraved along rich timber and thatch and every guard barring their way. He could imagine her, he thought numbly, a queen from this seat or guarding its timbers with sword and shield. She may have hidden from this burden, may have run from her name, but this hall and this land suited her well.

"We sent word ahead," Aragorn said to the guard in their way, beard as golden red as Hedda's hair, but he was ignored. They were stripped of their weapons, fear and worry clear in the eyes of these Eorling guards and that set his teeth on edge and turned his gaze sideways to his friends. Their welcome was not warm, no party had met them on their way, only the distant shadow of a woman and a fallen flag bearing a white stallion watching their path toward the hall. If Hedda had come here, it seemed her going on ahead had eased nothing of their path. He would have spoken her name, but he knew not which name to offer, knew not which name she would have given them and what name would spill her secrets freer than she wished. He was quiet, his fists clenched, ready to fight without his sword should he need. He searched each corner of the hall they entered, seeking the princess or the rogue he cared not, only looking for her face or her shadow here.

In the Golden Hall there sat a corpse upon the throne, old and grey, this man was not the golden king, nor as young as his years suggested. He was bowed and bent, eyes watery and red and at his side sat a snake, whispering to his king as they came.

"The courtesy of your hall is somewhat lessened of late, Théoden King." Gandalf called to the throned man, his crown sitting too heavy on his head, his furs swallowing him. His voice lowered, seeming kinder. Aragorn looked to the shadows of the hall, the guards following behind them all. Had she run then? Had she taken Arod and fled all of Rohan rather than return to this cold place? Had she left them behind rather than face this dark hall? Around them, Théodens guards it seemed, need not give up their weapons his door. "We sent word ahead with our friend, my lord, tell me where is your daughter?"

Théoden seemed to shake, his withered hands clasping the arms of his throne and his mouth twisted and curled. "Why should I welcome you, Gandalf Stormcrow?" He seemed disturbed as if poison stung his very veins and withered his body. His grey gaze, unfocused, half blind as it was bored into the wizard at their head. "My daughter is dead, Grey Wanderer, you sent ahead a ghost to get your way," The king rasped. Beside him sat the Wormtongue, lank hair and pale skinned, weak and beneath them all he had the kings ear. Grima, the snake whispered, feeding him lies feeding him weakness until he stood, as small and skinny in his dark furs as the king himself. When the king spoke Aragorn's bruised fingers curled into fists to hear her spoken of so. So she didn't run. He felt ashamed to have thought anything else. "Late is the hour in which this conjurer chooses to appear. Lathspell I name him. Ill news is in ill guest. He would trick and tease you, my lord - "

"My daughter -" the king interrupted him, spitting out the word as it confused a clouded mind, his wispy brows furrowed. "Bring her - bring the girl to me," He wheezed, drawing the soldier beside him, demanding this of him. His body was fraught, wound tight and the king looked pained and sick to speak, to make his own command. Beside him the clad soldier looked as shocked, eyes alighting over he and the wormtongue, but he obeyed. The soldier nodded, looking afeared but strode from the room with purpose.

"She has travelled far with us, My Lord. We met your nephew on the road, he knew her." He said, drawing forward, though he heard a thugs footprints behind him, keeping close should he draw to near their fragile king.

"A shade, my king, a puppet and a jest. Let her hang with all this company!" Grima snapped, seeming disturbed to hear the king speak at all. To their left a door opened, two guards dragging behind a prisoner bound tightly by her wrists and led by a long string of rough rope like a beast. Like they did not want to risk getting too close to her. There was a sack covering her face, but from the leathers to the way she snapped, fighting against her restraint Aragorn could see her in every inch of her there. His teeth ground together, meeting the eye of her captors. Without a word he marked them for pain, wanting them to hurt even with his sword lost to him, his fists and body could bring about enough to punish.

"A rogue, my king, impure and ugly she seeks to mock you, to mock your line -" He stammered, his hands shaking, clasped beneath his furs as the bound girl kicked out against her captors. A muffled snarl came from beneath the hood, and it seemed she was gagged. Aragorn's eyes were upon her, half the hall forgotten entirely. That a king would allow this, that Théoden had his daughter bound, he must be mad or raving, as lost as Gandalf and her cousin said. Could he not recognise her? Had the king even looked upon her? "Your daughter was buried in the hills years past - this imposter -"

"Be silent!" Gandalf shouted, making half the hall shake around them with his rage. "Keep your forked tongue behind your teeth. I have not passed through fire and death to bandy crooked words with a witless worm!" He said, seeming sickened by the man and from his cloak he drew his staff, throwing off the ragged cloak he wore to cover the bright light that seemed to surround him always. Gandalf the White filled the dark hall with light, and Grima Wormtongue quaked.

"His staff! I told you to take the wizard's staff!" The wraith whimpered, falling back to the steps of the throne and shaking visibly before them. What remained of their splintered party looked sickened by his words, his fear, all his pride lost to him as his thugs twisted to start their fight. "Kill her!" The worm tongue wailed, and Aragorn would have broken all his teeth had his fist not already been buried in his stomach of another. From the corner of his eyes he saw the two guards holding her stare dumbly at his order. They underestimated her skill by far if two was all they thought of hold her with.

Gagged and blind as she was, Hedda never missed any fight around her, let alone this one as it began. Aragorn wished he could simply watch her do it. She snapped back her bound hands so suddenly her captor lost his hold on the tail of it, stumbling as his attention was upon Gandalf, the one he thought was the true danger instead of the girl behind. The rope swung freely and she kicked up the heavy weight of it, whipping him hard and blind across his chest, making him step back with a curse, fist raised to strike her. That time was all she needed to reach for the hood, snapping it off her face and baring that mess of golden red and burning, furious eyes. She glared at the broad, slow men around her and snarled. Actions quick and precise she gathered the rope still in hand, winding it around her wrists further to shorten it into a weapon, a rough morning star of her own.

She could not move much, still bound and shaken but the rope made enough of a weapon to whip across the face of a heavy, hairy brute who reached for her, the rope drawing blood across his cheek and eyes. Blindly he took a step closer and the rope could not help her in such close combat. She swung her bound fists together in an ungainly punch to his throat, choking him and he fell to his knees, unable to breathe. For himself he was brawling with the men around him, avoiding the swing of knives and swords that sailed over his ducked head. Kicking the breath out a dark haired sell sword, he stilled his long enough to snatch the knife from his belt and toss it behind him into Hedda's waiting hands.

He had no time to look for her in her own battle, but he heard the snap of rope and the sick, wet sound of the knife in flesh as he tossed a heavy body over his shoulders, rolling until he hit the floor, grunting and cursing. He chanced a look and saw her crow aloud and knot her forearm around the neck of an axe wielder at his back, leaping onto his back and using her whole weight to throw him to the ground in a sly spin. A pick pockets trick, he noted, to keep away from the blade, to be light footed and fast, to be unseen. The kings guard stood still, behind them as they finished the thugs that were so plainly of a different breed. Wormtongues men, he guessed, the kings own soldiers did not draw blade against them. They were wiser, it seemed, and not in Grima's employ. They could see magic and divinity in Gandalf's every word and action and they saw through spell the snake had cast over their king.

The guards were done quickly enough and Aragorn went to her side. She was sprawled over the body of a struggling brute, but when he reached her she brought the butt of her blade down hard on his temple, knocking him still and sleeping. When he reached for her shoulder he narrowly avoided her fist, clearly not anticipating a touch when she was still so ready to fight. He caught her hand in his palm, a wry smile grazing his lips as the worms men scattered, keeping their distance from the both of them. He helped her to her feet slowly, examining her to look for marks of her capture. He saw red, raw skin where the ropes had rubbed against her and smoothed over them gently with his thumb. He did not like to see her hurt so, he liked it less how often she ignored that pain. He was glad to see her, gladder still to see her fight. "Not the welcome you expected?" He asked her, reaching for her chin, turning her face to see the faint bruise marking her jaw, stroking his thumb across it, trying to keep contained the snap of anger that flared at the daring of whoever had captured her here, in her own halls.

"I expected little else," She tried to smile, but her eyes were distant, her fingers coming to cover his hand and pull him back into the shadows from where Gandalf was calling spells. She angled delicately behind him, going unseen but her gaze was on the throne, just over his shoulder. A wry smirk on her lips she looked to him. "Were you riding anything but the pride of Edoras's stable, you may have arrived to see my execution."

Aragorn wondered if that was gratitude before his attention was caught, turning back to their great wizard. "Théoden, Son of Théngel. Too long have you sat in the shadows." Gandalf cried, pure magic pouring from his mouth, power sending the old man back sharply against his carved throne. Foul words poured from him, each cutting and Aragorn knew she should not hear it, but when he looked to her she was quiet, guarded and still. When Théoden was free, and gold returned to his skin and hair, her mouth fell openly weakly, taking a single step to pass by him and reach for her king. Her face was unreadable, uncertain, but a flash of pure gold and white crossed their path and she snatched her body back, far from the throne is quick, nervous steps. At the kings side a pale haired woman calmed him, speaking kindly as the kings colour returned to him. Another princess of Rohan.


	15. Chapter 15

As the fog cleared from the man she'd once known, as life returned to his eyes she reached for him, barely in control of her own actions. Were she less weak, were she wise she would have stayed hidden, perhaps even fled, but in her place before the king's throne a golden woman caught him. Her locks were bright Rohirric yellow and her dress pure and white, her face was fair and beautiful. It had been fifteen long years, but Hedda knew her hands were soft, her voice warm and her skin unmarred by freckles or scars. Her cousin went to Théoden and she turned her eyes to the floor. It felt wrong to look upon them. She'd not gone ahead to ease their way, she'd gone ahead to speak to the king himself, to show herself alive and well, strong and free. She had been sure his words would be cruel, cutting if she arrived in the company of her friends, and she was unwilling to be so shamed in front of them. She had feared the accusations he'd sling upon them of some suspected impropriety. But the king had not met her, it was Grima sat upon his throne, whispering his words, whispering lies. Cold and pale he'd commanded her bound, imprisoned and, half dead, Théoden had not seen her to argue. She'd shouted her name, her lineage sent orders from the mouth of a princess of Rohan and curses from a rogue, but they'd gagged her silent. She was a ghost to them all, and one they could not trust in, one they could not see.

When her father, glorious as he'd been once stood tall again she'd fallen back. She weighed the steps to the doors and wondered if she could make them before her father remembered her face. She had no such option as he cast Grima out, sword held aloft and rage in his face. His strength returned to him he was fierce, a snarl in his voice. When the snake slipped away, free and afraid he turned, his eyes still far and brow furrowed, legs weaker. When the snake fled he had looked to her friends, and he had looked as old as the corpse he had been.

"My son… where is my son?" He breathed, looking to the golden plains ahead as if memory took him once more, and he looked for him. Barely a step from the darkness he'd been drowning in he called for his family, and it  _hurt_. Aragorn pledged his fealty to the man, bowed before him, all their company knelt to see this king restored. He hardly seemed to care. "Where are my  _children_?" He cried again, and when all stayed bowed before him she stayed standing, unwilling and unable to kneel for him. In the crowd he found her at last, standing straight and still as she was behind the bent ranger. Her legs shook and she swallowed hard. Her face she kept a mask, shadowed and still as she stepped toward him. Was this it then?

Would he cast her out of his city as he should? How would he punish her for failing again and again? When he reached for her his expression near shattered her as his palms found her face, holding her close as if he held the gossamer heads of a dream there. He was older than she knew, of course, but so was she. His skin would brown again in time, the strength would return to him. The child she had been when she knew him would not. His eyes swept her, taking in her knotted, wild hair and unbecoming leathers, her empty sword belt and the fear in her. Her eyes shut, awaiting the sting of words or sword, she cared not what he intended for her now.

"We thought you dead, my daughter," he breathed, bringing her to his chest, embracing her tight as if she'd fade from sight. "You return to us now, our  _Idis_ ," A cheer went up again, throughout all their party, and joy would be sung throughout all Edoras that day. The day Idis had returned home. And god she would have fought him. Would have told him her true name and pushed him away, would have hated him for all the lies she'd never spoken. But she knew what darkness she brought, she knew already what cruelty awaited all their country when he asked for his son. Tied and hooded in the stables, hidden from view, ready to be sent away or hanged she had heard them speak of her brother.

She let nothing slip through her shield, staring her his shoulder and folding away every feeling she had inside her. Her arms lay limply at his side, over her shoulder the king's guard spoke of her brother. Theodred had fallen in battle, he said, his place in the hills already dug. She deserved no songs, no joy. Her life in Rohan, it seemed, was traded for his.

Her chambers were unchanged, and she could not bear to look upon the dusty, shut up rooms she'd called her own once. Her steps left scuffs in the thick dust on the ground as she circled it. It had not been touched, it seemed since she had left it. Her hands traced old books, crackling parchment and dolls made of horsehair and wool. A musty cloud rising from her carved bed as she sat, exhausted upon it. When she looked she could see the carvings littering her desk, gifts and toys, painted and inlaid with some gold and rare jewels. Théoden had tried to speak with her, but grief was a good enough lie to flee to this fresh prison.

It seemed her jailer would be Éowyn when she came, sweet, beautiful Éowyn that deserved the king's affection and all Rohan's love. She had offered a black mourning gown for tomorrows precession, but she had not pressed, not dared. She'd spoken, but Hedda had stared through her, looking only at her rough hands in her lap. Eowyn had asked after the empty belt at her hip, the place for sword and shield she didn't have.  _Does she mean to mock you even today?_  Hedda wondered, but her eyes were vacant and dazed. She didn't speak. She felt more false today than she ever had, just looking on her beautiful cos made her feel low and ugly. Someone like her should not be tended by soft hands. Her ways would stain Éowyn too.

The king came to her, clad in black he stood tall, strong though the weight of all the world seemed upon his shoulders. Éowyn bid them goodbye and left her, Hedda's knotted hair brushed smooth and gold as hers, her eyes red and swollen and face set.

"Idis," He spoke, standing at the entrance to her dark, untouched rooms. He looked at her as if he still expected her to vanish, a phantom from his sight. Here, in these shut up rooms, he thought her a fragile ghost.

"That's not my name," She murmured and he stepped closer, disturbing the dust across the floor. "That was never  _my_  name." His face fell, his eyes seeming endlessly pained and he reached for her again, as if he still needed proof, as if his embrace had not been enough to feel the daughter thought was there within her. He opened his mouth to speak, but words failed him. Her hands fisted on her thighs. He meant to cast her out, perhaps, but even he could not do so on this day. He reached for her instead, laying his hand on her curled fist. She was glad. She was not certain she could speak all that had to be said today. When he left she stayed in the room, not allowing even the maids sent to clean it entry, and huddled on the wooden ground, wrapped in her cloak. Knocks fell upon the door, and she ignored each one, waiting for the morrow.

Through the funeral, she stood silent and cold beside the king and his family. Such was not her choice, she'd not been allowed to slink behind with her friends and stood, a new stranger beside the grieving king. Her hair blew loose but brushed by Éowyn's hand it shone. She'd found a new pair of boots, new, without the holes and wear of her old ones and a clean grey tunic beneath the cleaned black leathers on her back. It seemed, in the darkness of this day, no-one sought to fight her for them yet. She was glad for it.  _Wait until tomorrow, Hedda, they'll burn them for you._  She feared their silence too as she stared into the tombs lining the hills of their forebears. How long would she be allowed her silence before they delved into her wandering days? Until they demanded she face it all? How long until they forced her to put on a false title and a false name or leave for good?

In Edoras under their eyes, she had nowhere to hide, and nothing to shield her. On the hill, Éowyn sang, low and sweet, a lament she could not join as they laid him to rest beside his mother. She wished she could sing with her. If Théodred had a sister or a mother left it would have been her duty to do it.

Aragorn found her on the hillside alone, a dark figure against the grey sky, standing utterly still. He stood beside her, his arm just grazing her own, and she flinched away from the touch, gentle as it was. "I fear you mean to leave us," he said eventually, not looking to her but looking into the same green grass, spotted with precious white flowers. A stride from her feet there lay a small tomb, old and grown over with grass and bursts of pure white flowers. She couldn't look at his face, but how well he knew her. Beneath her bed, she'd stashed some stolen rations, and she intended to run. She'd carry on their quest alone. She'd stir armies and loyalties, she'd hunt orc and Uruk to aid them - but not here. Not  _here_.

"I should not have come back. You would do better here without my company." She said simply, winding a hand around her stomach, as if holding herself in. Then the words spilt from her lips like a river, shaking. "I'm not like  _you_ , Aragorn, there's no prophecy in my blood. Gondor isn't waiting for me. There's  _nowhere_  that needs me and I'm  _glad_  for it." She had thought her name alone might lift the weight from her, but here she may as well be buried beneath everything left on her shoulders. He reached for her, his chest to her shoulder and it made her shiver softly, jaw clenched to temper that fear. His arms, strong and sweet reached for her, arm laid across on her own as it was bound around her body.

"I told you Idis died, Aragorn. Longer than you think." She murmured, her body stiff against his touch and she scuffed the ground beneath her feet, brushing aside the fragile stalks to reveal tiny, pretty stones set into the ground. They spiralled and turned, there beneath the flowers was a spiral of old Rohirric, similar but not the same to the one she'd showed them. Hers was the symbol of Shieldmaidens and women, this was the symbol of children and girls.

"She's  _there_." She choked out, voice sick with all her lies as they spilt from her like blood from a wound."The real Idis is there with Elfhilde and Théodred where she  _should_  be," She cried out, a sob wracking through her and it was only Aragorn keeping her standing. "She died a child but they needed her - they needed a daughter for Gondor!" She couldn't look to him, couldn't bear to see his face and only waited for him to take his hands off, to flinch away from her. To realise the lies she'd told them all. "She was already promised so they took me - daughter of no one, some  _bastard_  babe," She fell to her knees, wanting to curl up there on the grass, wanting to die upon that hill and never have any name again. She wanted to, but Aragorn didn't let her go, his calloused thumb coming to her face to hold her steadier but she could not look at him, could not look away from the sweet green grass and the pale stars of Simbelmynë.

"I had no name so they gave me hers and a crown and I couldn't do it - I  _can't_  do it! Now all they have is me - nothing and  _no one._ " She could have screamed it to the very stars, her whole body weak, ashamed. Failure was within every see since her birth, and she could never be the princess they'd made her. "Don't - you shouldn't touch me," She gasped out, her face pale and stricken as she waited for him to cast her off. She'd told a thousand lies but he knew now just how beneath him she truly was. They would all know she was nothing to them.

When first he'd met her he'd offered the two tales he knew. Betrothed but never wed, the proof of that was in Boromir's every step, his every snap and glare. But now he knew the second, that Idis, dead and buried here, was true as well. Whispers and stories surrounded her, no matter where she went or who she was, but . She was worthy of nothing, no stories, no kind touch, but Aragorn gave them still.

"Stop - be still." He ordered her, his arms strong, winding around her shoulders to keep her close to his chest as tears blinded her. In Gondor, she'd be beaten for this offence. The little servant girl she'd been should never even look upon Aragorn, this very scene was an affront, a story, a scandal. Every step she'd taken with them was.

"You had no name so you made your  _own_ ," He spoke gently, turning her gently in his arms to see her face, forcing her to meet his eye while she tried to look correctly at the ground, the way a rogue, a bastard and base born girl should. She'd learned as much serving her betters in taverns and high halls, those lessons were scarred on the backs of her shins. He shook her gently, forcing her to meet his gaze, rough palms cupping her face gently as they knelt too close on the soft grass, crushing the Simbelmynë beneath them. As he spoke she tried to pull away again, tried to run. But he'd not let her this time. Fifteen years she'd fled, and now she'd nowhere left.

"You think your blood changes you? Make your own crown and your own shield,  _Hedda."_ He said, speaking slowly, forcing her to listen to him. Her eyes, green and wide and wet trusted him, even when she trusted no one with what she was. "Rohan needs you, our fellowship -  _I_  need you. And you owe  _none_  of it to your blood,  _Thandrîs_."

He said those words like a promise and wreaked, she swallowed them greedily. He'd let her stay this long, and she tried to bind his words in her heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELL THERE'S THE TWIST I'VE BEEN WAITING TO POST FOR WEEKS.


	16. Chapter 16

In the light of a new day, she felt stronger. With the sunlight came a chambermaid, pretty, pale and flaxen-haired. She squealed 'my lady' and blushed, flapping her hands as if to heard Hedda from the room. her company had snickered lightly, the sound not even stirring Gimli from his sleep.

When her eyes had dried she'd bid Aragorn go. She'd taken a corner in the quiet stable, breathing in the earthy smells, the sound of hooves turning the hay, her fingers winding through the brushed manes upon their backs one by one. She'd crept in later. Numbly she had wondered if her lordly friends would act like this sweet maid and usher her out. So she slipped in when she hoped everyone would be asleep, but Aragorn was sat, leaning against a wall, pipe glowing low, waiting to lay down himself until she returned. She nodded at him, trying to offer him a small smile, grateful but wordless and curled on her own pallet in the guest hall. When she settled he did the same, and their company slept, each inhabiting their own piece of the wood floor and lulled by Gimli's snoring.

In truth, though she'd not slept well in days, she was uncertain if she could even sleep alone any longer. She rarely kept her own rooms, only in Imladris had she done so, and that comfort had made her soft for a time. More often on the road, if she'd had a room anywhere it was shared with friends or lovers or else beneath the stars. In light of all she was, let them talk about the wild princess, back from the dead and cavorting with her company of strangers. She was testing them all, waiting until they snapped, shook her, tried to quell her again or beat some manners into her body. The nameless maid tried, offering to clean her own rooms herself if it was so terrible she would be driven to this. "Board that room up if you need to, I've no need of it." Hedda had shrugged, paying her blushes no mind as she ran her fingers through the knots in her hair.

With all the death she'd seen, she carried Boromir and Theodred with her like new, fresh wounds, still bloody and weighing on her back. It made her feel acutely weak, afraid as if she truly might shatter here again if she let it happen. A part of her waited for Legolas or Gimli to offer some resistance, to send her back. Idly she remembered a childish fancy of camping in Minas Tirith's gardens beneath the stars one night. Denethor had her locked in her room for the next two days when she'd been found, bedroll beneath her and sun setting. Gimli merely snorted, clambering from his bedroll and asking after breakfast, ignoring the very idea until she laughed.

She felt a tension between her and the ranger king. She felt naked. As if her every action now had an underlying meaning that he and only he knew, and she trusted him, more than any, she thought, but she did not trust herself. She was at a loss once more it seemed, in the proper way to be around him.

"Children arrived in the night, Milady," the blushing maid spoke, looking down the hall rather than see her. "Your father asks for your friends in the hall, I left a dress for you in your suite. -I can bring it here if you'd rather." She mumbled, and Hedda shook her head, arms folded in front of her. "Thank you, but no, I'll have no need of them." The maid hadn't replied, eyes wide and concerned before turning away and scurrying from the guest hall.

She turned her gaze upon her friends, standing quickly and offering a hand to the half dozing dwarf. When all were ready she led them through Medusheld, their guide through the great hall as well as she had the plains of Rohan. The paths familiar even after all this time that each dusty tapestry brought back the image of her cousins and poor, buried Theodred.  _Be kind to him, Girl, he has lost his son._ She tried to remind herself, to keep her temper controlled.

Gimli fell upon his breakfast when they found the hall, swallowing fatty bacon and golden eggs seemingly without chewing or even tasting them. The hearty food of Rohan was clearly to his liking. For her own she avoided the kings gaze, seating herself with pipe in hand, lighting it and blowing slow, steady rings. It had not escaped her notice that the maid had come for her company, not her. She wondered if it was because they thought her still in mourning for her brother, or because she was a woman.  _You will have to speak with him._ As it stood, she'd denied any other hour to speak to the king or her cos, unable to voice her words before the funeral. But she would not pretend Idis still walked among them, it was unkind to all of them.

Éowyn, her light, beautiful cousin was a picture of duty before them all, seeing two golden Eorling children ate their breakfast, soothing, sweet and kind, love in all her actions and a delicate crown upon her brow. She still wore black, the same dress from the procession. "They had no warning. They were unarmed. Now the Wildmen are moving through Westfold, burning as they go. Every rick, cot and tree." Hedda followed her words, seeing not the woman she expected there. Her words strong, demanding action of her king. She was proud to watch her, proud to see what a princess she made for Rohan. If not for her and the tension her disappearance had sparked Eowyn would likely be in Gondor, mourning Boromir herself. The wife of the future steward befitted her. Would Boromir have loved her? She wondered but stopped herself. It was idle thinking. She had to take comfort in what was, and it soothed her heart some, to know Théoden had her close through all these years, that he had some daughter to love when his own and she were lost.  _She'll make a good queen if Eomer does not return, no matter who she may marry._

Gandalf's eyes alit over them all, two small, pale children serving as a warning - Saruman himself could have sent no better flag of war. "This is but a taste of the terror that Saruman will unleash. All the more potent for he is driven mad by the fear of Sauron." Gandalf spoke of dark will and magic, but the king was unmoved, his golden face seemed lost, even afraid. His spell was gone, but this was not the golden king she'd known as Gandalf frightened him with the truth of power. "Ride out and meet him head-on. Draw him away from your women and children. You must fight."

Aragorn spoke up from beside her and she wondered if she should move away. It was hard to remain unnoticed beside him. "You have two thousand good men riding north as we speak. Èomer is loyal to you. His men will return and fight for their king." Would he? Èomer loved his people, Aye, but would he come back for the man that had cast him out? Her eyes went to Eowyn when they spoke of her brother, and she saw the golden princess hopeful and sad.  _She has lost her family two-fold, you're a poor replacement._

"I could go to him. He trusts me little but give me your banner and he'll come." She spoke quietly, her eyes down onto the wood of the table beneath her, fingers tracing Boromir's circlet at her bicep. It was something she could offer, though Legolas shook his head as if to argue. She did not wish to be parted from her fellowship, and distantly she knew this was not their quest, but if she could equip Rohan with its lost army she must. "Or send Eowyn and I both, your men may be better suited guarding the capitol." She thought idly of Èomer's eyes upon her, how he had recognised her after all this time. He had grown, aye, but he seemed unchanged, Théoden was not so. Théoden was frightened. The father she had known, had he ever felt so afraid as he did now? Had he ever run so willingly from justice and war?

"And we can call the farther villages closer to the capitol and offer aid as we go," Eowyn interjected, her eyes lighting. Was she as stifled here as Idis once had been? The thought of leaving these walls on such a task had her eyes wide, the golden princess moving closer to where the rogue girl sat.

"No! I know what is that you want of me. But I would not bring further death to my people. I'll not send the last heirs of Rohan out unguarded and I will not risk open war!" He said, resolve strong and it made her teeth clench, standing from her place at the table, slamming her hands down hard, cups rattling.

"Because you think us weak?" Hedda snapped, and Eowyn came closer, standing shoulder to shoulder with her once cousin. "I've known more dangers than diplomacy."

Aragorn had more composure before her, laying a hand on her bare hand, splayed on the wood and smoothing his thumb over her knuckles slowly to calm her. Eowyn's eyes followed that action, looking between them for a long, indecipherable moment. When he spoke his words clear, offering wise counsel. "Open war is upon you, whether would risk it or not. But alone they'll be quick and unremarked, and she's passed this land with and without us safely enough before. They may be far in less danger than a messenger." She smiled softly to herself and knew both she and her cousin looked to the dark ranger as he spoke. His support was beyond any either of them had known from a man of his station. Both, it seemed, were used to fighting for themselves against warrior men. They shared that at least.

"You'll aid Edoras better from this hall," Theoden spoke quickly, seeing within their group that they'd not easily be swayed. "The people of Rohan will not take up weapons for war and neither will it's  _women_!" He said, as though the thought of her with sword in hand was laughable and sick, Idly her hand swayed to her empty sword belt, her weapons not yet returned.  _Is that his doing?_

"Let them fight proudly and defend or they'll burn in their villages, alone and unarmed. Soldiers  _and_  women," She said for her own, the words more contained, measuring her anger at the old man. She stood against his gaze, tall. She would not hide from a man so weak. She had no wise counsel, only rage at the stranger before her. She would not hide when he would so willingly flee and cower. Such was not the way of Rohan, such was not the way of either of them.

"When last I looked, Théoden, not Aragorn, was king of Rohan. When last I looked my daughter had some care to  _obey_." He snapped, looking to the trio, smoke still furling around them. The ranger king took his chastisement well, accepting his kings' words, for her own she slung out her hand, knocking an iron goblet to the ground. Its rattle was loud, drawing every eye to her scowl, to her argument. Eowyn laid a hand on her wrist, tugging it back to soothe her anger.

Gimli spoke, half to himself to lighten the dark mood among them, "Oh? Perhaps we'll meet this daughter some day." And it worked, the anger bubbling inside her quelled by her short friend, turning down her face to hide her own smile.

Gandalf would not rile him any further, deferring to the changed king. "Then what is the king's decision?"

And when the man who had raised her in a different life spoke, she saw a stranger within him. Nothing then could quell the anger growing inside her.

When her fellowship left the hall, Hedda stood before her king. Unashamed and unafraid of him now, in light of his decision. In light of his surrender. Her back was straight and proud, and beside her Eowyn stayed, shoulder to shoulder. She was glad to have her there, and distantly it reminded her of many distant days in a distant life.

"My sword, shield and knife were taken from me when I arrived here. I would have them returned to me." She folded her hands behind her back.  _If you will not fight, Old King, then I will do it for you. "_ And my vambraces. When this comes to war I will need them all."

He looked at her, in that same, lost and far gaze Èomer had looked upon her with. Trying to make sense of her in his mind. "I will not have war within my lands, Daughter." He warned her, speaking that title that made her hands clench, the feeling weighing on her, urging her to fight it. "And I'll not have you putting these ideas upon your cousin." He said, looking to Eowyn.  _Do you think I will infect her, Theoden? That my poor blood can be caught?_

"And I would not have a coward command me. Would you not avenge Théodred? Would you let your son die for nought?"

"I would save a thousand other sons of my country in his name!" He bellowed, the two locked in so much feeling the hall seemed afire with it. She'd not allowed his tears, not let him close enough to grieve with her. All this time she'd thought herself unworthy of it, now Shieldmaiden she was, she felt stronger than he. She felt braver. The king was frowning, looking at her, the very clothes on her back alien to him.

"Uncle, she carries a shieldmaiden's sword and  _our_  symbol. If nothing else she's a sight of hope - of the strength and valour of Rohan. We will all need that when we leave your hall." Eowyn interjected, mediating their bellowing argument, her voice cool and calm.  _She is wiser than you. She knows war and politics better than both of us._

Theoden frowned, lines deeply carved into his face as he looked between them, united as they were. "Then have your toys," He bit, rising from his throne again to stride slowly to the window, looking out over the gold plains. "Wear them all you will but you'll not use them. If battle comes you both will go with the women and children."

"I've likely fought more battles these last years than you've hefted a sword. The women of Rohan have as much right to fight as  _you_." She snapped, unable to stop herself.

"I will not send another of my blood to die defeating these beasts!" He shouted, his voice loud enough to be heard throughout half the hall. Eowyn's hand tightened on her wrist but she cast her off, blood rushing. She could take his lies no longer, not this weak man that called her Idis, called her daughter.

 _"I am not your blood!"_ She snapped, voice cold and unjust. Eowyn looked to her with wide, lost eyes.  _So she does not know._ Silence hung between them and she looked at him, eyes wild, hair, so like his and yet so utterly different. The red threaded through it common and unkingly. Éowyn and her pale, flaxen hair was truly his blood. Gently, she covered Eowyn's hand on hers with her other, offering her this, and clinging to her as well. Eowyn had every right to be disgusted by the bastard she'd been raised with. He shook his head, clenching his teeth the way she did when rage stoked within her. "All these years you've suffered calling me your own - suffered the  _shame_  I wrought and the  _failure_  I made in Gondor." Her breath was coming too heavy, her shoulders rising and falling so fast she could be running, fleeing, fighting for all the effort it took.

"But Boromir is dead, Théoden, there's no betrothal you may use for. You've no need to call me your daughters name any longer, no need to protect my common blood. My name is Hedda, not  _her_ , and I  _will_  fight!" Her face was flushed with rage, but her words poured from her, unkind but so long they'd been pressed down, kept buried within her. "I'm not your cousin, Eowyn. I know what I am, and I've the right to die on the battlefield with my like - not quaking behind the walls."

He searched her face, seeing everything painted there she'd spoken and hidden, mingling with hurt and hate, battle and shame. "You are my daughter still," He spoke gently, standing, taking steps toward her.

That old name was on his lips, she knew, she waited for him to speak it, to call her Idis, his lost child and press her to be that girl she had never been. She dropped Eowyn's hand as if it burned, inhaled sharply and pulled away, cloak snapping behind her she fled. She was as weak as he, it seemed. Her cousin called after her, Idis still on her lips but she fled, not able to answer all the questions she'd have, all the hate she would hurl.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rohan family bonding.
> 
> This one I struggled with because I have so much to write about Rohan. it was so long I had to cut in half, so the next chap will be up likely tomorrow or the next day.


	17. Chapter 17

She stormed to their guest hall, teeth clenched so hard she felt her skull might shatter and pushed her anger out into the wall, her knuckles cracked and bleeding as she hit the wood timbers again and again. Being here made her feel young, childish and improper. Like a squalling child in the company of greater men, but knowing it did not stop her snapping, arguing, too many words unsaid between her family that all she could do was shout. She found them in the stables after she took some time to calm her heart, washed away the blood with cool water and looked for her friends. Gandalf the white, resplendent with his steed, the Lord of all Horses awaited her in the stable, speaking of their weak king. 

 

Aragorn seemed the most bitter of all of them, she wondered if this was how he would lead his own people were he the lord of Rohan in her father's place. What would she or Théodred, or even Éowyn have ordered if the lives of every Eorling woman and child lay on their shoulders? What kind of king would he be? 

 

”He is only doing what he thinks is best for his people. Helm's Deep has saved them in the past."

Gandalf held the anger of age, wiser and more biting than most her own age could get away with. ”There is no way out than that of that ravine. Théoden is walking into a trap. He thinks he is leading them to safety, but what he'll get is a massacre.” He threw up his hands, berating the king of Rohan, his anger making the horses around them less calm. 

 

Of course, they turned to her, as if they expected her to defend him. She would do no such thing, her hands winding through Hasufel’s locks in the bay beside them, calmed by the earthy, coarse hair as she ran her fingers through it. “He cannot bear to lose any more of his people under his banner. He’d let all of Rohan burn if he did not have to command the first spark.” Beside her, the stallion whined lowly, and she brought a hand to his muzzle, soothing the velvet soft beast, not looking to any of them.

 

"Long sickness and long sadness have weakened him, Hedda, it may be only kindness and strength will bring him back, not any magic of mine.” Gandalf warned her, seeming not to like her unkind words. She had to bite back her scowl, keeping herself calm as she stroked her fingertips over the horses head. 

 

“Then Éowyn should see to her uncle. She has both and his ear. He may listen to her more than any of us. Let me ride out in your place, Gandalf, he may listen more to you than me.” She counselled dully, thinking of her golden cousin. Her company were strangers, of course, Théoden fought them. Éowyn may have better luck. So unlike Hedda she’d known grace, she’d known temperament and dignity. Her shouting had earned her nothng today, only her cousins reason had. She had his respect and his ear because she deserved such and because she was wise enough to use it. Knowing the girl Hedda had made herself, she would be wise enough to stay away from her as Theoden would wish. Her cousin, she supposed, was the woman the true Idis should have been.

 

Shaking off such thoughts she turned to Gandalf as he mounted his horse, patting his knee gently. “Tell Èomer I’ll see him again, Gandalf, tell him it may save his uncle. And return to us.” 

 

“I will. My search will not be in vain.” He reared his horse, the great, beautiful mare a shining thing, better than every royal stallion in the royal stable, dappled and pure as she was. “There is still strength in Rohan, Hedda, and in Théoden. Look to my coming, at first light, on the fifth day. At dawn, look to the East.” He shone, his pack slung over his back and that pure, brilliant light still clung to him, even in shadow and darkness of their surroundings. He left them behind, sailing from the stable, and from the way they would take next.

 

She bid her group to follow her, but the braying of a wild horse took Aragorn’s eye and she nodded, leaving him be with the battle-mad horse that was kicking his pen door to splinters. In mere hours activity overtook all Edoras, and she was thankful for it. Rations, packing wagons, brushing and healing horses made them all busy enough that she could easily avoid the king and his niece. She set herself to work with Legolas and Gimli, in secret packing up the old armoury that had been outdated since even her day. A new one had been built before her birth, bigger and next to the  training rings. The weaponry and armour was old, but would serve them better than whatever rusted things remained in Helms Deep. As they dusted heavy cobwebs and outdated weaponry, she spat out her story. She wanted to leave the tale here when they went, and in the dusty, abandoned armoury she told them she was no daughter of Rohan. 

 

“My maid told me in Minas Tirith. She was my wet nurse once, and had been there to bury the first Idis. If I’d wed Boromir a commoner, the steward would have thought it a slight or a trick. It could have meant war between them, though my leaving almost meant the same.” 

 

“And that was why you fled,” Legolas said, his blue eyes wide, likely as disconnected with the ways of men as she had always known him to be. “Would the steward break such ties for something as foolish as blood?” 

 

“If it freed his son to better offers. If it gave him an opportunity to exert his will over Rohan. Wife or prisoner, it would have given him a power over this land, and he has no love for the king.” She trailed off eventually. Her voice was low, unfeeling, the way she had long perfected. “But Boromir and the steward never knew. When we met I promised all of Rohan to our quest - but it was not mine to offer.” But Gimli told her, in any name and blood she had she had still walked beside them, made them laugh and saved them from sword after sword. Legolas seemed as confounded by the steward and her fear She well deserved their mistrust, but they offered no such thing. Her friends were behind her still, even here, even after it all.

 

 

 

When she returned at the end of day her weapons were returned, laid in the guest hall corner she’d claimed without a word. When she hefted it in her hand, she saw her shield repainted, the red stallion painted the pure, snowy white of their house. but Théoden did not try to speak with her again. He seemed unwilling to fight with her, as much as he was unwilling to war with Isengard, and wisely she avoided his hall and him. When she slipped away before dinner, unwilling to keep the company of the king and his family, she knew that guests of the king like Aragorn, Gimli and Legolas could not so easily vanish. So when dinner was called she left through the servants door, leaving her leather coat behind in the guest hall, the weather warm enough to slip out of the gates in her overlarge vest open and the loose grey shirt beneath.

 

She unfolded half a loaf of hard, stale bread and some hard cheese from a scrap of cloth, stolen from the kitchens and settled on a steady slope just outside the walls of the city. The air around her was gold and orange, but purple and blue rapidly painted the sky as the sun set. She swallowed a few mouthfuls of the dry meal and drew her work from her pocket. She turned it in her hands, stroking the rustic art between her fingertips, running a slim block of wax along the strands of it. 

 

Alone it was three simple tufts of hair, strands of rich red, dappled grey and pure white, taken from the tales of Shadowfax, Arod and Hasufel in the royal stables. A stableboy had handed them to her without word mere minutes after the wizard had left and she’d near slapped him for his nerve, knowing what he thought she was. It was bad luck for a warrior to work like this, and his very action had told her he thought her no fighter, but, she supposed, she had no weapon yet to prove what she was to him. But she’d taken them none the less, folded away in her pocket, and alone as she was she’d smoothed them, winding them round and round her fingers until they were more supple and waxed them gently until they shone. She felt guilty for it, but she’d took the chain stolen so long ago from Moria and snapped it sharply two. With the butt of her blade, she bent each link - hardly bigger than the size of her thumb free of the chain until she was left with a pile broken links and intact circles of metal. It was soft silver, mouldable and beautiful, and it was all she had. 

 

She was slow and careful, enraptured by the work she’d not done in so long but remembered well, and around her night fell, the sky melting into deepest blue, silver moon high above them. 

 

Near a hands length long it was near finished when a light fell on her. She stilled her hands, bringing them up to shade her eyes to see the ranger king step behind her, a short torch in hand bathing her in some warmth as he staked it into the dry ground and sat by her side, reaching out to break off some of her forgotten bread and finishing it with a swill of her ale. 

 

“Theoden refused my suggestion that our company could defend the ration carts on the journey.” He said, gaze and manner casual but eyes scorching in a way that made her steel her spine, fingers slow as she pulled the tail of white hair through a delicate knot. “He expects us - and you - at the head alongside him. He thinks you may leave again." She exhaled slowly, bringing the small block of wax between finger and thumb, rolling it there before pulling it along the long, trailing strands to stiffen and shine them. “And Eowyn asks for you with every second breath,”

 

“I would run if I could. If not for you I would not have stayed even this long. I would think he’d want me gone again.” She said at last, voice empty, careless and casual as his own. As if it meant nothing as she squinted against the warm torchlight. She bit down on her tongue a moment before casting off her thoughts, setting a silver link into her next knot, keeping her eyes other work. “I’ve no place at a kings side unless I can lift a sword and fight.” Beside her Aragorn stiffened, and it dawned on her, as it often did, that he was a king as well. That when he took his crown she’d have no right to him at all. 

 

“You’re worth more than just a soldier, Hedda. And you offer more than just a sword to Rohan.” She felt Aragorn’s eyes still upon her there, watching her work and her face in turn. “And to us,” He said, more gently. She lost her place, a knot unravelling slowly as she moved to catch it, winding it back into place. When she spoke her voice was more strained, more of an act as she tried to remain unaffected. 

 

“I have work to keep me busy on the road. it’s not as regal as your own but I’ve no temperament for kings.” She shrugged, such work was enough for her, heavy labour, nameless and needed. She turned to him, a small smile on her lips “To Rohan I can only be a sword. To Pippin and Merry, to our fellowship, I hope to be a shield as well.” He smiled with her, and she thought how handsome he looked, his strong jaw and dark hair a contrast to the sky as it only grew bluer, the whole world wide inky and dark behind him and the stars bright, crowning him. 

 

“What is your work?” He asked her, leaning closer to eye the devilishly tricky knots and braids, strung with loops of silver. She felt near embarrassed to look upon the rough-hewn art of Rohan between her fingers, but she was skilled in this, she knew, and there was no sense hiding it. She laid it across her thigh to let him see properly, pausing an instant to smooth it. He edged out one finger, following a familiar looping curl that centred the pattern, a smile of recognition in his eye as he looked at her. 

 

“Knots are important in Rohan,” She said, winding the course horsehair through her fingers to continue her work as she spoke. “The knots in our armour and on our walls - we braid them, bind them. Eorlings keep them in battle, tokens to give strength and keep you safe, to lead you home again or let you find peace.” He watched her as she folded in another link of silver. She did not want to look at him then. 

 

“Soldiers have them more often than royalty these days, kings can afford better spells.” She shrugged, drawing the dry hair through one tiny knot and pulling it taut. “Braided by wives and mothers and sisters. Different knots mean different things.”

 

“Like woman -  _Shieldmaiden_.” He interjected deftly. She nodded, proud of the work she’d done there to create the looping overlap that gave the bracelet its centrepiece. “I fought in Rohan before but I never saw any like these.” 

 

“Eorlings keep them hidden, close to heart or vein or breast. It’s a strange thing to do, I met an exiled man in Gondor once with a dozen on one arm, all made by his daughters and he was so proud of their work and well wishes he’d not hide them.” A small smile quirked her lips at the thought of it, before she carried on, drawing her wax idly over a slight curl forming at the ends. 

 

“I made dozens of them in Gondor. For the steward and his sons, for the house guard, for my own and sent them home for Théodred, Théoden and Èomer. Needlework, not braiding is the art of Gondor it seems. They did not like them.” She hummed, thoughtful and quiet her eyes wandered to the far plains where the night sky met the land.

 

“How long were you there?” He asked her, his eyes following her every move as she set down the wax and took a sip of her ale, discomforted by talk of the city. But, she supposed, it was his city. He should hear what she knew of it. She did not even know if he’d seen it. She did not know much of him, she realised, and he knew everything of her. 

 

“In Minis Tirith? Near a year. I’ve seen Gondor since, worked there, lived there, fought there - but I never saw the city again.” She said, watching him as she spoke, the set of his gaze, looking out into the darkness as she spoke of his city. “It’s a grand place. Beautiful, the city and walls and white tree above any I know,” He turned, meeting his eye at last and she saw he was guarded there, to hear of the white city that surely stood like a ghost over him. “but it’s a dying city and a dying land. You can see that in every ring of the city.” 

 

“And you’ve seen them all.” He spoke gently, eyes tracing her features, flicking down and she wondered vaguely if he was thinking of the scars he’d seen on her. Sharply she drew the last end tight between her teeth to secure it well enough, the string trailing a loose spool of hair in three bright colours. 

 

“I spent half my life at the very top of that city, the rest in the filth of it, Aragorn. In the foundations, the common people hate the steward for rising so high, at the highest tower the steward spits on the ones who anchor the city to the earth. When it’s yours, Aragorn, I don’t think you will make that mistake.” He did not answer, and his face looked pained. She swallowed past a lump forming in her effort to counsel him. As if she had enough knowledge to council a king, simply because she’d fought in the streets he’d rule over. She cleared her throat, bringing the finished braid to the light so he could see each shade of hair and the glinting silver. She held it up, the intricate knots shining in the light there for them and jerked her chin. 

 

“Your wrist.” She ordered of him, giving him no choice. Would he deny this token? This custom that was not the art of elves or Gondor - it would be humiliating if he refused this rough, homely charm she could give. He did not hesitate and it lightened her heart, holding out his wrist closest but she shook her head. A symbol was for the left hand, the arm that would hold his shield and the side of his body that held his heart. He obeyed again, offering his left as she knotted it tightly there, shearing the trailing edge with her knife and tucking in the severed end. 

 

“Protection, speed, connection.” She pointed to each of the more delicate, simple knots she’d rendered there, tapping them pointedly. “ _Connection_  means different things. You’ve Gandalf’s symbol there in Shadowfax’s hair, you’re there in Hasufel and Legolas in Arod. Gimli is in the silver. I’m there in the knot. Woman. Shieldmaiden.” She said, drawing her fingertip over the delicate ropes of hair and just grazing the flesh of his inner wrist. “Serves that our leader should wear it.” Beneath her fingertips, she could feel his heart beating faster. 


	18. Chapter 18

Refugees of farther farms and villages filled the city, swelling the noise and numbers, and with them came fear and confusion. The guards were still packing rations, sending their people on their way to join the line steadily cutting through the distance. She found that, among the crowd, tales of her had swelled as well. She’d near faded into myth these last years, thought dead or wed or disgraced and sent from Théodens hall because of it. She’d heard her name cursed and heralded both within tavern and halls from here to Gondor. She’d been a martyr of Gondor’s cruelty, Rohan’s ill refinement or as a fleeing, frightened lamb. Her father had thought her dead all these days, but most seemed to know only the political lie she’d forced him to offer. An ambassador, he said, sent to learn when her betrothal was broken. She knew he’d near warred with the steward, and the steward had near warred with him over their broken truce. Her reappearance, stoked by confusion from the hall only shook what faith Eorlings had left in their king.

 

Her pack was thrown over her back as she left their guest hall, Legolas and Gimli before her. All around her the house was thrumming with activity on this, their exodus of the golden hall, leading all of Rohan to their stronghold in the rock. In spite of all the sorrow and fear around them, she felt lighter, a small smile on her lips as she fled the timbers, the plains calling and her own horse awaiting her, saddled and ready. It was her name that struck her, Hedda spoken on a familiar tone. 

 

Aragorn was locked, sword to sword with Rohan’s golden princess and the sight stopped her dead still to observe them. Perhaps Aragorn was teaching her some skill with the blade she held, perhapsÈowyn already had skill enough. To see her royal cousin with sword in hand gladdened her heart, to see her use it scared her just as much. She shrank into the shadows as the two lowered their weapons, thinking what Théoden would think of the blade in her hand.

 

“With Theodred fallen and Èomer exiled people look to her, to Idis. Women of this country learned long ago that those without swords may still die upon them. I fear neither death nor pain, but Hedda is… something different.” Her words stung, digging her nails into her palm hard as she listened to her false cousin. She should not be surprised thatÈowyn warred with the image of her, the outside of her for their shared people, now was a time they needed a stable, great ruler. Now they did not need her, and her very being barredÈowyn’s better leadership. 

 

They stood close to one another, he dark and strong and her, lithe grace and golden light all about them. In Éowyn’s beauty, Aragorn looked all the more rugged. To see them together, the past and present of Rohan and the future of Gondor she thought of betrothal and, as she so rarely did, of politics. 

 

"What do  _you_  fear my lady?” Aragorn murmured taking a small step apart from her as she tucked away her weapon. Éowyn looked at him as if he were a shade, surely as surprised as Hedda by his attention. He had not dismissed her spirit and her clear skill, perhaps she had expected that from him. Perhaps, like so many men of Rohan,Èowyn hardly thought her a woman, much less worthy of Aragorn’s eye. AndÈowyn’s eye was staunchly on her dark companion. She supposed, she should not be surprised her cousin was enamoured with the man of Gondor, the ranger king. Many women would be. Many better women were. 

 

Èowyn spoke slowly, her eyes on him as they circled each other slowly, and Hedda could feel it, hidden there in the shadow, how well they matched each other. ”A cage. To stay behind bars until use and old age accept them. And all chance of valour has gone beyond recall or desire. But I fear to have sword beside me I would have to be like  _her_. I fear she courts war and blood.” Hedda shut her eyes, her head falling against the frame of the pillar she hid behind. Éowyn, pure and valiant as she was deserved so much more than Hedda’s life. Éowyn’s place was here, in blood, in name, in manner - this was her home more than it had ever been hers. Hedda did not wish for Éowyn to leave it. If she must choose between a rogues life or her own, Hedda would tell her herself to put down the blade. Were she in Èowyn’s place, with all she’d seen, maybe she would make the same choice. 

 

Aragorn’s voice was kind when he spoke, looking over her, even in rough-hewn wool she looked every inch a royal daughter. "You are a daughter of kings.” He said and how it tore her heart. Because there was the truth of it. She could make her own crown, aye, and she could heft her shield, but she was no princess. That was the choice she’d made for herself, and it was too late now to go back. But she still felt foolish when it shattered her, and she thought of the gift she’d braided. She wanted to burn that meek, useless offering, cut it from his wrist and never look on it again. She had braided him a gift given by family or a wife as if she had any right to be there on his wrist. He and everyone that saw the rope of hair would think her a fool; the bastard girl with no name that tried to put her mark on a king. “A shieldmaiden of Rohan. I do not think that will be your fate.” Aragorn continued, and she heard her name, Hedda’s name but her teeth were clenched, fists clenched tight as she slipped from the hall. Aragorn’s voice followed her, kind words spoken of her but still, he need not speak to tell her what a fool she was. A world away in the forest of Fanghorn she’d thought what it would feel like to flirt with the ranger king, and flirt she could, but when his time came he’d love and wed the way all royal blood must. He would need ancient blood to match his line, grace and wisdom and beauty to hallow his halls. Flirt she could, but she could not endanger the ties he would need to knot. When he took his crown he would wed Rohan to fill the gulf she’d torn through their cities. 

 

She walked beside her company but was quiet, heavy with the reminder of her place again. Her new horse, the spotted grey Mæden was more suited to speed than strength, but she was a balm she did not deserve, a kingly gift. Though she knew with only a glance it was no warhorse like that of her friends, it was a greater gift than she deserved. When Aragorn came close, walking beside her, hands taking the reins beside her own he idly asked her some question about her cousin she swallowed down a snap and answered simply, not even remembering her words after they’d left her lips. At her emotion, she near laughed again -  _as if your blood is all that makes you such a foolish choice. Aye it’s your heart and head that are as much a fault._

 

But it was Èowyn, sweet Èowyn moving to her side that crushed her. Her cousin, the stranger and one who knew her so well put a hand into the crook of her arm, and thoughtless she flinched from the touch, lost in her own thoughts when she felt it. 

 

“Lord Aragorn has told me some of your deeds on your quest,” She’d said simply, looking to the blade at her belt and Hedda raised one brow. “I was glad to hear it when we were children do you remember how often we spoke of Shieldmaidens?” She said, and her voice was birdlike.  _Is she mocking me?_  “You were not the only one to take up the sword, Cos, I’ve trained all these years as well as you, but still your father will not let me join you and use it.” Defensive she ground her teeth together, hand on the pommel of her sword. She looked into the distance, a lump in her throat and when she spoke she was clipped. 

 

“You are the only daughter left of Rohan, Èowyn. You cannot war and fight.” She said, stiff, far distant in word and heart and eye. She didn’t look to Èowyn’s face, but she could feel the surprise, the hurt from her. Aragorn, mere strides ahead flinched.  _So he is listening._

 

“But you can?” she breathed, stung. Would Èowyn tell her how little she deserved the name she’d taken? That the women, the history of her country was not for Hedda? That a Shieldmaiden’s sword was not for a wild, battle-hungry bastard girl?

 

“I am not a daughter of Rohan. When your uncle admits the lies he had told he’ll not trouble himself with spilling my blood in battle.” She said, the truth of her words not kind, but neither were they unkind. They were merely true. Like Aragorn, like Legolas, like Gimli and like Boromir,Èowyn’s blood was precious. Èowyn’s blood held meaning in this world. 

 

She pulled back, unwilling to war with her cousin and she looked ripe to snap back at her. On their path, she’d not have them fight. She excused herself, nodding her goodbyes to her friends, to Éowyn and some of their guard as she mounted and wheeled her horse. She fled. Sailing down the line of refugees, their faces blurred, flags and colours obscure to reach the stragglers from the lands closer to their border. Those of low station and lower homes had been slow to act, without horse or laden with baggage they trailed at the end of their party. It took her some hours, and night fell while she asked for certain names and offered descriptions of her quarry to strangers in their camps as they laid their bedrolls and made their fires. At last, she recognised the back of one scrawny sell sword and followed him quietly from the main line. 

 

A loud, brawling group they were, and she was glad to see they had stuck together as they funnelled from their hovels and homes, empty barns and inn rooms and camps beneath the stars. They, at least, looked merry to cross Rohan for safety. In her wandering years she’d kept to herself, indeed, but when you saw the same face a few times, shared ale and laughter and bedrolls with the same people you came to know one another. Their camp was some way away from the rest, theirs was a group that enjoyed their privacy and certainly far from what guards travelled with them. 

 

“Tanner!” She shouted, seeing his narrow, pointed face and bald head before a fire. Seeing her his eyes narrowed, trying to place her, she guessed, before standing and crowing wildly, hands cupped to his lips to draw even more attention to her. From there she picked out the faces of perhaps three from their band of fifteen she knew. A few strides from the others there was Köttr, a tiny pickpocket she’d hired once to steal her something special from a high hall. She looked hardly fourteen but had the whole ten years Hedda had known her, hidden behind a mop of brown hair the girl greeted her with a rough embrace. 

 

“Ah ah, fauntkin, no sense in looking - I got nothing for you to steal.” She chided, letting her go as she felt those delicate, featherlight touches at her pockets. The girl snickered, already holding Hedda’s blade, slipped away without her notice in her hand and throwing it once, twice into the night air. The little thief had no blade of her own - such things just drew undue attention to a girl that was best in the shadows and ignored, but she was skilled with them. She held her hand out for it and slipped it back into the holster at her hip, but she was glad to see the girl that barely passed her chest in height. She was a quiet girl, only speaking when she found her eyes or acting could not, and always she looked near starved. 

 

“Thought you’d found greener grasses, My Girl,” Tanner grinned, his smile showing his one broken tooth and genuine warmth, his chin rugged with golden hair and eyes lined with age. “Said you’d join us jounryeing toward Gondor, and where was you when we were meant to meet?” He said, near throwing her into the seat he’d made from a fell log and settling beside her. Some of those she didn’t know looked on her with some suspicion, not helped, she guessed by the royal emblem she wore upon her shield.

 

“Had to honour some old contracts is all,” She shrugged, taking the weak broth she was offered. She knew not their cook, but in a band as this like helped like, whether thieves and assassins or contracted rogues and runaways. None had a home, so they made what they could here, beside the fire. 

 

“Aye there was talk of some shieldmaiden walking in Théoden’s halls, I wouldna taken it for you though, all the years I’ve known you you ‘aven’t gone anywhere nicer than the Blue Dragon down near the Isen!” He laughed, ruffling her hair as he mocked her and she shoved him away.  _So stories of you have reached this far._

 

Shaka, beautiful, tall Shaka with ebony skin and an eye for language and adventure offered her a broken heal of crusty bread, folding it into her fingers when she tried to deny it. She had her own camp, after all, and her own food, she felt wrong taking theirs. “I heard tales that the Shieldmaiden in Théoden’s halls was his daughter - little Idis the ambassador from so long ago,” Shaka said, her voice all mystery and question. 

 

“Word does travel far in Rohan.” She said, taking a bite of the offered bread to excuse herself from saying more. She’d not deny it, but she didn’t explain either. Friends these people were, they weren’t entitled to everything. Shaka didn’t need her denial, she seemed already to now enough, reaching a hand to her hair, sides up in a typical Rohirric travelling plait, but it was clean and brushed, and that was enough for them to see something strange in her. 

 

“An carryin’ a royal shield of Rohan - aye, must be quite a trek to make you align yourself with kings!” Tanner interjected, laughing, lifting it and showing off her painted shield to all their group. “And they must be desperate - to have  _you_  with ‘em, even if you are playin' Shieldmaiden!” 

 

“Aye you’re not wrong there,” She agreed, laughing along with all of them as she greeted each of their party. But still, she could not find the words to explain to them the company she kept, the kings and princesses she was bound to. “Desperate enough are they that even  _you’d_  be a gift to Théoden’s army now.”

 

“Well ‘fore we all starve behind the stone of Helms Deep - may as well drink to our health!” Declared a strapping, handsome farm hand fleeing the soldiers that had caught him rustling sheep. It was as easy as that, it seemed, and ale they had in abundance. Tanner tapped a cask, and they drank from simple mugs of tin and they drank deep. 

 

They were merry, lit by a warm fire, bellies full. She spoke nothing more of her own explorations, hearing Shaka, the girl she’d met in the lower lands of Gondor tell of Far Harad and it’s oliphaunts. Tanner spoke of some of their shared friends, those she’d journeyed with in days past. Most friends they shared had fled other ways, some had gone to Gondor, some even further, Saruman’s poison, the orcs across their lands were unsubtle and most were wise enough to move on early. but they were here because, simply, they had made their home in Rohan at the wrong time. As the day fell darker still, dusk turned to midnight, ale and rare haradic rum and rich, stolen wine flowed between them. Song sprung up, and she’d likely not remember singing out old folk songs she’d near forgot, her loud merriment drowning out her thoughts of her friends in a far camp. She’d not meant to stay so late among their party, but with ale in her belly, head swimming with drink she accepted their invitation and bedded there for the night. She was in no state to see her kings or her cos, and slept soundly beside the fire as it died. 

 

She left early, as dawn had hardly risen and their long line of refugees had yet to wake. Her horse thundered across the plains, waking most on her way as she sailed back toward the head of their party, the rocking of her Mæden made her feel sick and tired. She’d not said goodbye, they’d understand. And besides, she thought, they’d likely repay being woken so early for such with a cuff to the head or a volley of curses. The ride, fresh breeze and some silence healed her somewhat, but she likely still held the proof of drink in her blood shot eyes and the smell about her as she followed Théoden’s banner and came across their party. She had to keep herself calm, slow breaths measuring her as she slid from the horse and fell into place beside Gimli and Éowyn as they walked, as though she’d never left. But she could feel eyes upon her, the ranger king falling into step beside her as she clung to the reigns of her horse to keep herself steady. Éowyn too, looked between them with some feeling in her eye Hedda did not care to decipher. Embarrassment most likely, for her fallen cousin and the fate Éowyn feared awaited her as well. She was lucky Gimli chose that moment to clap her hard on the back, near making her wretch. 

 

“Is there some feast we missed, Lassie? Must be you’ve drunk half the rations set aside for Helms Deep!” He chortled, big hand rubbing her back in a way she thought might suppose to be soothing.Èowyn fell into step beside her, offered her a water skin and she took it, uncertain, eyeing her golden cousin to see if she thought her actions an afront. Her words from the hall seemed false or fogged, because she smiled sweetly, as if she hadn’t told Aragorn how low she thought her. 

 

“I met with some old friends, Gimli, for the good of Rohan of course,” She said with a shrug, brushing away his words with a small snicker of her own. “Seems an ale harms me more these days than once it did.” 

 

“Well next time ye find your way into a lake of the stuff I’d appreciate an invitation!” He proclaimed, making her laugh aloud and promise him so. He may like her friends, she thought, they weren’t rich or wise or titled, but they were amusing, and if Gimli could accept her, why not her wayward group? “The lad and the lass here were near forming a search party when you did not come back,” and that stung. She’d no doubt they’d appreciated time without her presence to mar or overhear. 

 

“I’m sure they fared well enough without me, Gimli,” She said quietly, looking ahead. She drifted in and out, near sleepwalking as they crossed the plains, snickering lightly as Gimli rode her horse to save his legs and spoke to Éowyn of the nature of dwarf women. Around her it seemed all spoke with some merriment, but she happily ignored them until long after they had stopped for stew, poor as Éowyn’s offering was. She sat a little way aways, politely refusing Èowyn’s meal, the smell alone enough to turn her stomach. Her cousin looked saddened by that, but Aragorn was kind enough - or flirtatious enough - to swallow a mouthful that brightened her.  

 

“Perhaps swordsmanship is more to her taste,” she muttered to Gimli beneath her breath as he poured it out, a grimace on his face, making him snicker as if that idea was so laughable. “it’s lucky the golden hall employs cooks, if they didn’t the royal line of Rohan would have starved years ago.” 

 

She was speaking idly with one of Théoden’s guards, asking after ration and weapons carts, asking after Helms Deep that she may know something of the coming war and to avoid the eyes and words of her friends and family. The heavy hooves of a galloping horse drew her attention and she saw a greying beast down the line, kicking up dust. It was old, no stallion or war horse, but it carried her friend, making her curse beneath her breath and step away from her company. Éowyn looked at her in shock at her words, but she met him far enough away to keep their words between each other. He wheeled around her until she caught his mares muzzle, stroking it slowly as he unhorsed. 

 

“Not here to shame you in front o’ your kings, don’t you worry,” he said, his hands raised in innocence before slipping to his belt, drawing her knife from there. She turned, thoughtless to her friends and found them eyeing her from the corners of their eyes, silent, listening. When she looked they snapped away, giving her some privacy, all but Aragorn, his gaze turned to her friend with something akin to unkindness. Was it so, then, that she could tell him of her base birth, but not be seen with anyone the same as her? Her mouth turned down, and she turned her attention back to her friend. “Köttr stole this while you slept - think she thought it’d make you come back,” Tanner said with little remorse, tossing her the knife and her hand went to its place at her waist, finding the sheath and in its place a rusted kitchen knife. She traded one for the other, shaking her head at her trick - but it was hardly the first thing that girl had stolen from her.

 

“I’ll see her again, whether she’s thieving or not - you tell her that. But you outn’t bring her up this way, it’ll draw eyes you don’t want on all of you.” She said, trying to quell the discomfort she felt with him being there, the king a few horses ahead, Éowyn and her company mere strides away while he spoke to her. It was enough to make her knuckles white for clutching the reins of his horse. Her eyes flicked thoughtlessly to her cousin, the blonde, soft curls so close and bowed, low in conversation with Aragorn. When she looked, she found the dark ranger watching her, his eyes slipping away as soon as she noticed. Éowyn though, Éowyn did not turn, her eyes alighting between the two of them, low born and unbecoming as they were. Tanner nodded, clearly not needing to be told twice and she drew her attention back to him. 

 

“It's them eyes we don't mind. That's why I came - to tell ye we answered your request - all of us that can,” He continued on as they walked together, leading the reigns of his horses a few strides from her group. Request? She wondered, her brow furrowing, not certain she knew of what he spoke. Had she let her mouth run away with her after the rum had spilt? “Shaka won't fight, doesn’t hold for that o’ course. Köttr though, she’s fast an’ quick, she can refill arrows and she’s a good knife girl in a brawl. Good spy and good guard too - people don't expect her to cut 'em, and'll steal right in front of her eyes. The brawler brothers are in, Lyk and Tracker are good enough with axes, Rat’s a bowman, won some contests. All in all got nineteen able fighters down the line, not soldiers mind, but they’ll kill all they can, carry in supplies when we get there and guard what needs it.” He said, his back straight, puffing up like a commander “couple went this morning to guard the ration carts - only the ones the guards didn’t recognise of course. Tryin’ to make ‘emselves useful.” At that she stopped dead in her tracks, eyes wide and mouth open, his horse braying to be stilled so suddenly, "Shaka's gone lending hand to some orphan group that's goin' hungry." 

 

“Why would they do that now?” She asked, voice alight and grin forming on her lips, some lightness on her chest. Of course she’d been in her cups when she’d asked, when she’d spoken of what they sought to do if all came to war and orcs were on their doorstep. Last night most had sworn to hide, to sneak out through the back caves, not thinking kindly on war. Apparently they now had answered. “They’re not robbing are they?” She suddenly thought, looking to him, frown on her lips. She may be their friend, but she’d be sharp and put a stop to that if she must. 

 

“And be hung? They’re thieves, Hedda, not fools. Not gonna starve out the king and all his people, not when they’re relying on his kindness to keep ‘em.” He shook his head as if she were the fool. “We might not hold to any lord, Girl, but there’s no making a copper if there’s no-one left alive in all Rohan.” He said, voice a little loud and she laughed, thinking their thoughts as fair and as selfish as she’d come to trust in. 

 

“I expect no less -“ 

 

“But I’ll say true, Hed,” he said, cutting her off, face suddenly serious, head bowed low to speak quietly to her alone. “They’re not followin’ your kings orders. They’re followin’ yours.” She was speechless, meeting his gaze with confusion and she sought to disagree. She was no leader among them -Èowyn had said it true enough that Rohan wouldn’t follow her for all her faults. They were better offering their weapons to any of the kings beside her. She looked at the ground a moment, clapping her hand down on his shoulder to sate her discomfort. Without thought she turned her eye forward, finding Legolas’s pale hair scouting their way. 

 

She might have spoken, denied his allegiance, but from over a high hill there came a brutal, animal squall that stopped her thoughts in a moment. There, a shadow over the sun there was a Warg scout. Legolas’s warning rang through them all, and the common people screamed. Horses brayed and kicked, the crowds around them scattered and broke, running for any cover they had as Théoden commanded his riders to the head of their column. She drew her blade sharply, the metal hissing as she looked to her friends, seeing them alerting all around them and mounting their own beasts. She snatched her still steeds reins, the horse already running.

 

“Then do my will, Tanner and protect my friends!” She shouted at him, the hired sword that had promised to obey without a promise of gold. It was a desperate order that came unbidden. With a snap of her cloak, she leapt for her own horse, seating herself in the saddle with something akin to home. It had been many years since she’d felled any beast from horse back - and in fifteen long years she’d not had a horse like this for her own. As she hefted her shield she saw Tanner hand off his horse, the elderly thing not much but faster for the women and children to flee upon. She could hear shouting behind her, her name from the lips of the king and her cousin, ordering her to join Éowyn’s party with the women but her blade was drawn, the sword shining in the midday sun as she galloped to the distance with the riders at the head of their company. It was too late to stop her, and with Aragorn and Gimli by her side, she did not ask permission. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fauntkin - middle english, ‘young child’, an endearment.  
> Köttr - middle english ‘cat’   
> Shaka - The name of the Zulu tribal leader sometimes compared to Attila the Hun.


	19. Chapter 19

They crested the valley, Aragorn horsed beside her, Legolas ahead on his feet with bow before him, Gimli stumbling, unable to rear his steed thanks to his height. Tanner, unhorsed and armoured with an old set of blades was afoot, but he'd fight better there than horsed. Beneath her Mæden's hooves pounded the dry earth, strong and fast and her sword felt lighter in her hand than ever it had. A horde fell upon them, snarling, beastly creatures with wargs and sickly sharp blades. With her sword low, she cut through two in one fell slash, horse sailing so fast she cut them down in one long, graceful line until they scattered, growing smart enough to duck and roll away from her. they had thought her an easy target, unarmoured, a woman, a civilian along with all the others. A beast reached for her, the sword in hand deflected only as she knocked it aside with the metal of her vambrace. The blow so hard her arm trembled and made her gasp aloud.  _Do not become complacent, Girl._

With all her strength and a nasty snarl, she brought down the iron rim of her shield down hard, knocking the helm from its head and throwing it to the ground. Her horse wheeled to pound the body of the beast into the earth and still it for good, blood painting its hooves and flank as she sped on.

In the distance, she saw Gimli fall, Legolas and his horse sailing far without him and she tried to gain on him. His axe was hefted to strike at all that came close, though the wargs towered over him and he was near lost in the frat of fallen warriors.

It seemed, when she battled with her friends, her worries extended far beyond the reach of her own sword, but hung on familiar hair, the flash of silver blades and listened for the same sounds and shouts. Before, with her friends beside her, she'd known well enough if one of them fell she'd mourn, but go on. The battle wouldn't end, the quest would continue, and many times it had. With this company, she felt less certain. With this company, she feared every one would fall like Boromir had, that she would have to watch those she cared for bleed and die. 

With a grunt she slashed her sword. She was ungainly as if she had no training and only instinct, cutting her way toward the dwarf. Her horse screamed, kicking out strong legs and stamping over bodies dead, dying and fighting. She was no warhorse by look, but she was just as blood-hungry it seemed. She was listing heavily to one side on her mare, holding on with the strength in her thighs alone and the reign to better reach the shorter uruks on the ground, rending head from body. Her actions were fierce, but she missed once, twice, riding just too far to reach one creature then a second. She was distracted - her eyes dancing from blonde head to black, black to red, red to blonde. She was not trained in battles like these, but in skirmish and brawls, bar fights and fast, uneven fights to the death. Her fights lacked discipline. This seemed a grander thing, more like a story, but it was just as bloody, just as filthy.

It was when she looked again she saw that tuft of orange hair, knotted and wild as it was, crushed beneath the weight of a mountain of fur and bloody flesh. Kicking one beast from her path she shouted his name, guiding her mare toward him with an Eorling call. A beast crawled over his body, slow, menacing, ready to kill a pinned man and she urged her horse faster.

Before her she saw Tanner reached him first, hefting a long, dark spear, driving it so hard through the beast he pinned the dying creature to the meat of the dead Warg before pulling it out with a short laugh. She wheeled her horse, knowing she was not needed as he staked the spear between the dry ground and the beast's body to lever Gimli free, two shattered monsters falling from him. He offered the dwarf his hand, helping him to his feet.  _He obeyed_ , she thought with a soft smile. It seemed her command had not been in vain.

She had no time to congratulate either of them, though in her heart she was proud as she snatched up an orc spear, hefting the unfamiliar weight and length in her palm and running it through the chest of a Warg rider, spearing him into the ground with a vicious scream.

But she was hardly engaged with her battles, her eyes finding familiar hair, snapping cloaks, the flash of swords. With a small, exhilarated smile split her face as she made for higher ground, wanting to see more of the ground and what numbers were left of the horde. She heard nothing of the Warg rider following behind her, blood thrumming too heavy in her ears. The beast looked half an ugly, over muscled pig half a wolf to her eye, but she did not see it until the creature slammed into her horse's side, knocking her from its saddle. Her steed screamed beneath her, arching, legs kicking as it was weakened. With a scream of her own, she fell hard on her back and rolled sharply across the grass for strides. Her sword fell from her grip, a step away but already the Warg and its rider were upon her. It looked at her with black, broken teeth, teeth wide, bared in a snarl or a smile she knew not, but her horse was wild, kicking out as it fled. She had no time to think, no weapon. She hefted her shield but on her back she had no momentum to swing it, to use it as a weapon, and only brought it up to block one hard blow, the beasts blade biting into the wood. She was on her back still, kicking her booted feet sharply to knock its legs back as it snatched the blade back to take another swing.

There was a scream in her throat, her legs, buckled and bruised would not do her bidding and stand fast enough, leaving her prone, open to attack. As it raised its blade again, taking its time when it saw her so unarmed, she was saved only by that pause. A feather sprouted from its eye, blinding it with a scream. An elvish arrow. She beasts slung, blinding, black blood oozing from its face. It was enough. Rolling to her knees she swung body, hefting the shield and breaking the beast's jaw with the iron rim.

She smashed the face of it into its head, burying the arrow deeper into its skull and shattering it at the same time. The beast fell, and when she turned, looking for Legolas he was already gone. He'd given her time enough to kill the creature, knowing she could. He had not wasted a precious second feathering it dead himself. She was afoot, her horse fled and herself running back to the centre of battle though there were few beasts still fighting.

She slid to a stop, narrowly avoiding the hooves of a horse, riderless and fast and some distance away she saw it's rider - dark and clad in black, thrown to the ground. She spun, throwing her armoured forearm out to cut open the face of one weak, skinny thing before her, knocking the beast away long enough to let out a high whistle to gain his attention. Catching his eye she tossed him the weight of her shield, seeing he needed it, surrounded by stronger creatures that could do more damage. He spun, cloak twisting to catch it and lifted it high to parry a spiked mace from his chest, felling the beast as he struggled to wrest his weapon quick enough from where it was buried in the wood. Aragorn wasted no second before mounting a Warg himself, and she could not watch as she turned to bring down her sword and bite through her wounded orcs throat.

She turned, wild hair flying and come loose of her smart travel braids, looking for her next enemy, breath fast and quick, face streaked with oily blood and sword lifted to swing, but the screams had died down. Around them lay only slain, ugly beasts and blood, none left, it seemed, to fight. She braced her hands on her knees, gasping for a full breath, trying to slow her thoughts that still ached for battle and action. Théoden stormed toward her, his rich cloak framing him and he almost looked kingly, if not for the fear on his face.

"Are you hurt?" He demanded, sheathing his own sword and splaying his hands on her shoulders. She followed with shaking hands, the blade filthy but her hands steadier than his. But when she looked at him, she saw fear there, and she looked away.

"I'm well, Théoden." She shook him off and strode past, seeing Gimli, he and Legolas together on the field, calling for the leader. she turned, looking over the field to find him, sure he would be with the familiar image of her shield in hand and dispatching some last monster. She called out his name, the thought of injury not crossing her mind. She joined them as they heard a sickly, dying laugh. On the floor some paces away there was a beast, bloody, skinny, tufts of pale hair streaking its face. Orcs looked even uglier, it seemed, when they smiled.

"Tell me what happened and I will ease your passing!" Gimli growled, axe gleaming and sickly sharp between his hands. The beast kept grinning, and it made her heart feel cold.

"Tell me what happened or I'll make you live and bear it," She snapped, digging her worn boot to the bloody wound in its side. She pressed down just hard enough until it screamed, weak body flailing and shaking. He had stopped smiling at least, and that was well worth it.

"Dead. Fell - fell off the cliff!" He cried, his eyes tightly shut against the torture and she pulled back, giving him space to breathe. When he spat crueler words she regretted that kindness. "Had the bitches shield with him but it didn't save him!" He laughed, looking to her as he shook, blood bubbling from his lips sick and slow.

Legolas reached for him, gripped him by the collar and the beast whined pitifully, blood bubbling from the corner of its mouth as Legolas accused him "You lie!" holding onto one last, weak hope that he lived.

The dying creature unfurled his palm.

The knot of hair that held it to his wrist was snapped and frayed but the braid remained, the red, white and grey still shining brightly in the sun, darkened somewhat by sweat that had sunk in and stained some of the creases and joins. She took it from him, swallowing as she ran a thumb over 'protection'. When she spoke her words were choked, quiet and weak, "It did not save him." She whispered to Legolas and Gimli as if they would know her meaning, or know the knot or Rohan's tales and tokens. Her face was still in shock as the elf shook the dead creature like he held more answers. She curled her fist tightly around it as her friends leaned over the edge of the cliff, looking for him, still alight with hope that had died in her. Slowly on shaking legs she took three clumsy steps away from the edge, passing her father who watched them with pity.

She heard her name on the lips of Theoden King, but beyond him Tanner called and she turned toward him as he came closer. His wide brown eyes took her in as he sheathed his two blades on his back, brow furrowing. She looked at him like a stranger for a moment. There was a deep graze on his head, bloody and bruised and covering half his face in red, but he looked well enough, and he was alive.

He'd been a soldier once, she knew, and when she uncurled her fist, showed the broken braid there he understood. Perhaps more than any other she would dare show, he understood the braid had been something more than a token from a friend or fellow soldier. It was written on her face. In the distance she saw her friend, tiny Köttr, orc knife blades flashing, cutting the throats of some wounded soldiers to end their misery, Eorling and orc both.

"Bad luck - it's bad luck for a warrior to do it. They'll only knot in war and death," She whispered, voice cracking as she shoved it away in her pocket. She was not superstitious by nature, but it was not a kind thing to flout those rules and be so punished. He shook his head, tugging the leather thong from his collar to free the hidden, intricate talisman.  _Connection_  was knotted there half a hundred times in soft, women's hair, flaxen and beautiful, stained with the years it had laid against his skin.

"They don't do magic, Hed," He frowned, tucking it away and running a nervous hand over his bald head. He was thinking of his wife, the lovely wife of a soldier that had left him alone. She made handsome talismans and was a skilled seamstress, he'd told her that much after a blade had near cut his throat on a quest. "But they remind us who we love, an' that's near enough."

She swallowed, feeling unnaturally weak before her friend. In all their wandering, in all they knew of one another, only such secrets had come to light under the influence of ale and pain. They were not friends true and tried, but when she stood with him he knew her heart near as well as her company. Théoden made his orders, calling them to carry on their path and she knew it was right. She went to them, the tall elf and stocky dwarf needing something from her and she laid her hands on their shoulders, patting them slowly to draw them away from the edge.

"He fell to protect those in Helms Deep. We should not leave them unguarded long." She said, ignoring their king as a soldier handed the reigns of her horse. She held its bridle, leading it away with all her friends beside her. Numbly, she offered Legolas and Gimli introductions to Kottr and Tanner. As they walked those rogues and runaways that had pledged themselves to her joined them, filling their ranks, though some she did not even know. There was a clear quiet, discomfort and between them as they made their journey to the keep. Some of their promised numbers were already lost, those fighters they had lost some faith so soon. She turned to the king, numbly speaking the names of her companions, introducing them as her own and dictating their places on the wall, unwilling to hear him fight her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written to Mumford and sons. All the Mumford and sons.
> 
> Also lol I've finished chapter 26 and half the end already I live for this fic. What did you guys think of my OCs Shaka, Tanner and Kottr?


	20. Chapter 20

He was dreaming.

Rocked by a gentle breeze, cold and in pain, he felt curiously above the blood and bruises on his skin. As if he floated atop his body just as easily as his body bobbed on the water, buyed by a heavy, hard weight against his chest. When Aragorn's eyes opened slowly, body weak and tired he found his chest splayed over a circle of wood, the smell of paint and blood in his nose. It bobbed, floating on the water and when his gaze focused some he saw the whorls of white paint that formed Rohan's rearing horse. He groaned, feeling it grate sharply over rock and stone, the gentle rocking done as he stilled on the bank of a river. He needed to stand, to go on, to find his friends and Hedda.

 _Helms Deep._ To the stony keep that would trap them all.  _Saruman's orcs will find them there._ He tried to stand, bracing his palm on the shore, sharp rock cutting into his skin but his arms only shook, unable to hold his weight yet. His breath felt too heavy and too hard as his eyes fluttered against the weak sunlight. He looked to the red gold leaves lining half dead trees on the near shore and he could see her there. His weak limbs felt heavier still, and his eyes fell shut. It felt difficult to care for war and pain when he thought of her. Harder still as he felt river water and blood falling in rivulets down his face. His fingertips shook, clawing himself a little further from the water and the cold. He could see her, a spectre, she sat on the edge of the bank. She was dressed in the black leathers she'd worn since Lothlorien and idly braiding her magic, rustic charms, the ghost in his mind indifferent to him as he struggled toward her.

 _Tokens to give strength or keep you safe, to lead you home again or find peace…_ She had promised him that in Rohan. He could hear her, his eyes wet and dazed, as if there was a film covering the stony bank and the wet grass around him. Breathing so deeply he felt his chest contract, and his fingers curled into the bank, crawling a little further from the water, hand by hand.  _Protection, speed, connection._ He repeated her words like a prayer, and when he looked again, the ghost of her he saw on the bank was looking at him. Calling to him from the bank. His chest was screaming, ribs bruised or broken and he groaned, rocks cutting into the side of his cheek where he sprawled on the ground. All that woke him was her name on his lips and then, along the line of the river he could see a horse, mighty, strong Brego, the steed of kings striding slowly toward him, picking along the river.

The earthy scent of him, tamed by elvish words nuzzled gently at his dripping hair. He'd bid Èowyn to turn Brego free, the horse tainted and wild from war, but his bridle was still in place, and he guessed the beast must have been with them as they left Rohan. His arms shaking and weak he reached for it, the horses strength pulling him to his knees and from there he took a shaky step. The shield lay on the bank beneath him, and seeing it he gathered it in his arms. She had thrown him her shield, protected him. She'd protected him agan unknowing, the shield keeping his head above the water long enough to wake. Had she survived without it? The thought made his tight lungs ache, holding it in his arms, unable to let it go. Slowly, muscles and ribs screaming in every motion Aragorn threw himself into the saddle.

As Brego took his steady, slow strides away from the river his hand went to his left wrist, seeking the rough work she'd bound there. Since she'd given it, he'd smoothed his fingers over the knots in half a dream. It was a physical thing, a token and a reminder of her in every step, even when she'd fled their camp without word and made for stranger's company. In his head, he'd known the constant presence of Théoden King was likely the reason, but he could not deny the selfish desire to keep her there beside him. When she'd spoken with Eowyn her words had disturbed him, they, like so much of her, made little sense.  _How can she think her life means so little to Rohan, to Eowyn, to you?_

In its place was only the scratches and bruises where it had knotted him to the wild wargs saddle. It was gone, his fingers scrabbling at an empty wrist. His mouth turned down, eyes opening wide enough to stare blankly at the raw impression losing her braid had left on his skin. When he thought of it left on the field somewhere, he didn't want to imagine the Eorling prayer trampled into the mud or forgotten. But with Brego beneath him and his body battered it was too late to return, to track the token. When he saw her again he'd tell her he was sorry to have lost the craft. He had not been able to tell her before the ambush how he had loved it. Too often he could hardly think the words he wanted to tell her, too often he felt certain she merely understood what he tried to say without words.

But she'd said it again. The thoughts stirred his mind, his hands weakly clenching on the reins of his horse when he thought of it. " _You shouldn't touch me._ " She whispered, crying in his arms, but he knew it was not for proprieties sake. She'd made it clear before her cousin and them that she had little care for such. Then why? Because he knew very much that he wanted to touch her. It was a different love tp that he'd felt before; with Arwen it had been pure, consuming, half a religion and their touches tense with the history between them. It had felt as impossible as it was, and though he was broken when she'd gone to the Grey Havens, he was glad. Their love was a memory of childhood, and old promise that, with age, had been broken. In Hedda, her very presence made him feel  _free_.

He drifted, rocked by Brego's steady gait and eyes falling shut often as he slept to regain some lost strength, reins knotted awkwardly around his numb fingers. When he slept he dreamt of her land, more vivid, more alive than it had been in waking hours. When he'd fought in Rohan before they had held glorious feasts, bonfire burning and festivals to light the dark days and he imagined her there. It was a Rohan he'd not seen again, in the place of all that fire there had been quiet, pain and death. All but her.

In Rohan she'd come alive, and in Rohan he'd finally known her better. She was fierce and angry and defiant. Standing up to the man that had raised her, to Èomers cavalry, to every name, servant and king that crossed her. Hedda, she called herself, and Idis, whoever she was and whoever she had been was something very different.  _She'd survive the warg attack._  He told himself that, knew it to be true. Her shield weighed heavy on his back but he'd not let it fall, not when she'd given it up to protect him. His thoughts were scattered, weak and confused but he knew Brego guided him the right way, merely nudging him to stay on the path as he followed the high sun.

He thoughts were slow, wandering images of the Edoras they'd left behind. She'd been something very different there, slipping from sight and remaining in shadow and truthfully he'd missed her. So when he was bid to stay in the airy, hardy halls with her adopted father he learned what he could about her. Èowyn, kind as she was seemed at a loss when it came to her cousin. The day they'd left the high hall Èowyn had spoken, sword in hand of fear. Of the cousin she'd ever idolised and he could see Hedda in her. Though they might not share blood, though Hedda seemed against their shared love of swords and history, they were family.

From her he learned Èowyn feared her as much. Feared all she was, and it made her sword hand less steady. Feared her long silence, her temper and her losses. The princess saw something in his friend that she did not know, did not understand. Maybe the princess loved her lost cousin, but she saw as well the scarred thing a Shieldmaiden could be. Hedda was not the image of valour Èowyn imagined, and it made the sheen of battle less sweet for her. Such was a lesson she would learn for herself soon enough, if her uncle allowed it. He'd told Èowyn of her deeds, her strength, of Moria and Amon Hen, of everything that was his to tell. Told her only the truth and believed his own words when he told the golden princess if Rohan needed a leader and a queen, Hedda would be one to raise all Rohan up. She would create a different Edoras, he knew, a different world, but she would do it if she had to. He wanted her not to fear Hedda as she was, but not to think of her still as the ghost of a girl he had never known.

At the core of her, on a hill by the graveside, in a horsehair bracelet, in the sharing of a pipe; he knew her. And he was barely able to look away. In her, he could understand more clearly than ever before, that Ranger and King were not two different men. And in her, Warrior and Princess were the same. He felt stronger, steadying himself on Brego's back as they galloped through a low valley and up one of the steeper sides of it, driving him faster as he heard the heavy beat of drums in the distance. He crested the high hill, and he saw the end of all of them.

Gimli and Legolas met them at the gate, brash as he was Gimli barrelled into his and he grinned, embracing him so tight his aching ribs screamed in response. "You are the luckiest, the cunningest, and most reckless man I ever knew!" He proclaimed, his face ruddy, "I told her - I told her see that charm of hers would lead you back! Oh - oh bless you Laddie!" Tired he grinned at his short friend, thrilling to see him alive and not far behind the pale elf he knew better than most, heart lightening a little to see them unharmed and smiling, even in the dusty fort they'd taken.

"Where is Hedda? And the king?" He asked, looking for her in the crowd that circled them, but he found her not there.

"She's been shouting at her king for a few hours now, Laddie," Gimli roared, seeming overjoyed at the very thought and he smiled as well, unsurprised. "She's got a merry band pledged to her, fighting for their place in the guard is she, and she still says she's no leader!" He laughed, hand clapping down hard on Aragorn's back and with the hit came the sharp memory of the man that had pledged them. Tanner she called him, the rough, shaved man that she'd found on the road. His smile faltered at the memory of the stranger. The stranger that had given her an army of rogues and thieves and the man he did not know.

He greeted Legolas, embracing his old friend with warmth, his heart lighter to see them both unharmed. His own clothes were ripped, torn and stained with blood and his body was bruised and exhausted, but their faces lightened the soles of his boots. He braced one hand on Gimli's shoulder to steady himself as they headed from the main gate, crowds of Eorling refugees parting around them to let them pass. And when the crowd parted he saw her shoving her way toward them, light on her toes and looking half wild as she dipped around every farm hand and soldier.

She looked exhausted as he felt, deep shadows beneath her eyes but eyes alight when she stopped, still as stone in their path. The crowds around them divided like a river around a rock. She stared, eyes wide and uncomprehending and for a long moment, he knew not what to say. Seeing her there, alive, healthy, face flushed he knew not what to say. All the leagues he'd ridden thinking of her, and he knew not what to say.

He looked to the floor a moment, feeling Gimli and Legolas, uncharacteristically silent beside him, and he smiled softly. With one arm he reached behind his back and drew the heavy wooden shield from where he'd slung it, hefting the weight and showing off the heavy, water darkened wood. The paint was near gone but it was still, very clearly, her own. Her lips quirked, brilliant eyes lighting and she walked toward him and threw her arms around his neck. The shield dropped to the floor with a heavy thunk beside their feet. He hissed in the slightest pain but he'd gladly take it, his own coming to wrap around her waist, to ascertain she was real and true same as she did, to feel her warm and alive and brilliant.

"Does no one stay in their graves any longer?" She japed, eventually drawing back, her voice falsely light to mask whatever feeling was beneath. When she pulled back her fists clenched, looking at the ground once more as if she regretted the action.  _You shouldn't touch me_ , so she'd said too often. She bowed to pick up her shield and slung it over her shoulder. On her face was a grin, a lovely, brilliant grin he saw too rarely on her lips and he had no wish to look away, his dark tidings near forgotten, but they were urgent, even their greeting was marred by them.

"Grave? I simply took a longer path. I bring ill news for the king,"

"His mood is already foul enough to curdle and rot what rations we have left, I hope you bring whatever luck you carry with you still."

"Your doing I suppose?" He teased her, his hand just brushing the back of hers as she led them through the crowd, deeper into the courtyard and into the carved halls.

"When is it  _not_  my deeds that sour kings, Aragorn?" She smiled, but it did not sour her, her steps quick to keep up as he threw open the doors to the great hall their king occupied. He was sat on a makeshift throne in a hall carved from the very rock, it seemed. Grey stone surrounded them, the walls scratched, unfinished or broken he knew not. Dust circled and danced around them, caught in thick squares of light let in by high windows. Their group stood still before him in a steady line, strong and unbroken before the king clad in red and green.

He spoke freely, his voice cold, and he would easily admit - afraid. "There stands an Uruk Hai horde - ten thousand strong at your doorstep. I saw them on my path - you must ready what army you have."

"Ten thousand?" He stood, taken aback by the number. Saruman should at least have known that he had no need for so many, their fighting numbers were hardly four hundred strong, not accounting for the losses they'd suffered on the road. With Eomer's Eorod in the distance, able warriors were rare.

Here in the stone he thought idly how easy it could have been to flee on Brego's back, to carry on their quest alone. Here all of them were doomed to die, and with them Merry and Pippin likely as not. "It is an army bred for a single purpose: to destroy the world of Men. They will be here by nightfall." He spoke darkly and realised he had not hesitated. His thoughts were with his company always, lead back to them. He'd not leave them now, even in death.

Théoden rose to a greater height, his chest out Aragorn thought he looked more kingly then than he had in all the past days. Théoden knew what he had wrought, and he knew there was no keep left to hide in. "Let them come." He said, grand and ready, his tone set as he led them from the hall.

"And where does that leave my company?" Hedda spoke up. "You need every blade you have - here I've fifteen strong, will you accept  _now_ that they're as capable as your own?" A leader indeed, Aragorn mused, finding it difficult to take her eyes from her as she steeled her spine, looking taller and truer than a commander. Eowyn said that the people of Rohan would not follow her, and within the day she'd found herself another people to lead in their stead.

Théoden's frown looked less enraged than Aragorn expected, particularly knowing that this argument had been raging for some time. "Have your guard then. Arm them, armour them, see they learn some honour and I'll even pardon your  _criminals,_ but know I do not trust them." He dismissed, anger and fear warring on his expression and she was clearly cheered, but suspected him, as if she was waiting for Théoden's trap.

Her eyes were narrowed as if she did not believe his words. "And they'll fight beside me, on the walls tonight." She stated, not questioning him, as if she were merely waiting for Théoden to fight her. "They'll not submit to the command of kings, they're pledged to  _me_." Aragorn watched, his eyes going from the king to the Eorling rogue. This was fair, he knew, that she would fight as they did, he could not imagine battle without her there any longer. But to hear her speak this way, with authority and command she was more a general than a princess, a tactician not a rogue, and at last she had gotten her army.

"You've made it very clear you'll not be kept from battle, Girl, as have your friends." He said, with a tired resignation in return and Hedda nodded, more to herself but when she met his eye there was a shared pride between them. After it all, Théoden would fight her no longer. He stood, leading them from the hall as he spoke, readying his fort for battle in an instant.

"I want every man and strong lad able to bear arms, to be ready for battle by nightfall. We will cover the causeway and the gate from above. No army has ever breached the Deeping wall or set foot inside the Hornburg." He proclaimed, laying down strategy with precision, and this was the king he'd thought lay beneath the grizzled hair and sad eyes. This was the warrior they told tales of, the man that had so clearly raised Hedda.

Gimli, for the first time since he had known the dwarf, seemed uncertain, his bushy brows low and a frown on his face as they walked the rocky outer wall. "This is no rabble of mindless orcs. These are Uruk-hai. Their armor is thick and their shields broad." When he turned he saw Hedda had slipped away as they'd walked, likely with her own warriors to command.

"I have fought many wars, Master Dwarf. I know how to defend my own keep. They will break upon this fortress like water on rock. Saruman's hordes will pillage and burn, we've seen it before. Crops can be resown. Homes rebuilt. Within these walls, we will outlast them. Within these walls my people and my family will yet be safe."

"They do not come to destroy Rohan's crops or villages. They come to destroy its people. Down to the last child! Even if it be your own!" He said, trying to quell the anger he felt boiling at Théoden. After all of this, all he'd said and this king ignored, he still sought to let them die for his pride and his fear.

"What would you have me do? Look at my men. Their courage hangs by a thread. My daughter and her band of thieves has more hope than all the people of my country. If this is to be our end, then I would have them make such an end as to be worthy of remembrance!"

Legolas seemed near disturbed by his words, death was still so foreign to the ageless elf, and he was not one to so easily court certain death."Send out riders, my lord. You must call for aid."

Théoden soured, his gave on Aragorn lidded with anger as he shook him off. "And who will come. Elves? Dwarves? We are not so lucky in our friends as you. The old alliances are dead."

"Gondor will answer." He breathed, speaking lowly with the king, sure of it.

"Gondor?" He spat out, barking out a laugh "Rohan and Gondor have no ties left. Those alliances were weak when even you fought here, now those bonds are cut. Denethor will accept marriage alone to tie them again, and I'll not offer him my family again, even if we had days enough. No, my Lord Aragorn, we are alone." He turned, calling to what was left of his household guard on the wall, "Get the women and children into the caves!" He called, leaving them there.

* * *

It was later, as the sun had begun to fall and the women and children had begun to filter into the glittering caves that Hedda found them again, a tall, dark woman by her side carrying three children in slings over her back and a basket of bread in her arms. Hedda introduced her as Shaka, an old friend from far away and no fighter. She greeted him kindly, her accent lilting and sweet, and offered him hardy rolls and swigs of sweet wine from a jug she carried. She looked at Hedda with affection, and it was difficult for Aragorn to hide his own smile at that. Rarely had he seen her among those she knew and cared for. Boromir, her family, all seemed a bitter and distant relation. When Shaka slipped into the cave, quieting a squalling babe she was minding for a weary mother Hedda spoke, seeming ill at ease amongst the motion and streaming villagers around them.

"They're no lords and ladies, but they've some honour in them when they choose." She said, toeing the ground, seeming discomforted a moment. "Like me I suppose." Unable to deny himself a pause, a moments respite from orders and organisation he drew her to the side of the cave entrance, sheltered from the crowds by a cart stocked with rusted weaponry. He had been kept busy tending his own orders, and she had been apart from him this time to tend her small army, he had not had the time to speak with her he wanted.

"Then they have more than most." He murmured, his hands warmed upon her skin.

"Are you well? I'm no healer but I know some that can help you, there's no sense going to war injured." She said, voice low as she met his eye and he offered her a smile, warmed to hear her worry. His hand was still splayed on her wrist, thumb tracing the delicate bones there without thought. In light of such near death he found it difficult to resist touching her so gently as if to assure himself she still lived beside him. He feared the end here, he feared the end of all Rohan and the land of men, of light and dark and the epic, endless war. But he feared for his friends and valour and he feared for her more than anything. To feel her beside him, his fingers on her skin, it made his less fearful. He followed her gaze to his bare wrist, the scratches and bruises there apparent, unhidden and she moved deftly, stroking her fingertips over the broken skin.

"I lost it in the battle. But I am protected, I am led home. Eorling magic indeed -" He said, offering her a smile to lighten her mood. "But I was sorry to lose it."

She swallowed, pulling one of her hands free of his her hand went to her vambrance, finger digging beneath the metal and hooking onto something, tugging into the light the token he'd lost. His eyes widened, of all the luck between them that she'd unearthed it. It was knotted around her wrist and he hooked his own finger into it, stroking the hardy braids. The severed band was repaired simply, not with Arod's mane but Brego's, the dark, black-brown replacing the bind.

"It's bad luck for a warrior to braid one for another." She said, her words small and her gaze down as if she believed them. He hated to see her eyes down, fingertips on her chin tipping up her face to see her. "Even in this rock there are better prayers you could have before this battle, you don't need this one." She said, brushing his hands away from her skin and letting them fall to her sides. "Eowyn has some skill, Shaka knows other prayers -"

"I will have no other," he said gently, catching her wrist again. He heard her sigh gently, winding the knot loose until the rope fell from her wrist. With a smile, he offered his left. She looked at him as if she meant to argue, but thought better of it, wrapping it around his wrist and knotting it, the coarse hair feeling well at home amongst the bruises on him, a gentle quiet hung between them as he watched her. He opened his mouth to speak, to act, but Èowyn's voice shattered them, her anger defiant enough that Hedda bit down a smile as she slipped away to tend her own battles, leaving him to sate her anger himself. Hedda's words to her some time ago, it seemed, had stung her, made her only more eager to fight beside her cousin.


	21. Chapter 21

_I've woken up in a hotel room, my worries as big as the moon_   
_Having no idea who or what or where I am_

_Something good comes with the bad_   
_A song's never just sad_   
_There's hope, there's a silver lining_   
_Show me my silver lining_

\- Silver Lining, First Aid Kit

* * *

The armoury may have been eerily silent if not for her company, making merry as they often were. Unaffected by the gloom, a flask of ale making its way to every man and woman. A bit of warmth to lend strength and fellowship to all of them. To her surprise, she found the two sides of her together. Tanner and Gimli seemed to have found some common ground, talking loud enough to crack rock about the Warg battle on the plains. Even Legolas was sitting quietly beside little Köttr, the two of them sharpening short, sharp knives side by side without words. She turned her eyes around her, young boys barely eight winters old hefting heavy, rusted weapons and old, bowed men testing armour. Of all the people in their caves, her thieves and outcasts may be loud and brash, but they were armed and alert. They did not even look afraid, making jokes with old men and young boys all the same, stirring the cold, sad air around them. Men and women as bloody and as poor as her party rarely allowed the cold and dark to settle in their bones, this cave was no exception.

She'd spent half her day with them, split between Aragorn's fellowship and her own band, to see them now, circled together, strange as it was, felt like something akin to family. When she entered they looked to her, and Köttr stood, offering her a small mail shirt, fresh oiled. To the left of her, the farm boy Hros brought out a heavy sack, handing out odds and ends of broken to each of them, rusted armour - but just looking at it she could tell it was some of the best they had. Selfish as it was, she felt heartened to watch them offer these carefully chosen pieces to Legolas and Gimli, that her company would be armed well enough. But she kept back the best of what she could find, newer, strong mail and tough leather. For Aragorn.

When her small group all were armed well enough she spoke low, "With me, Drútdéor." Jerking her head to a side hall that was emptier to speak with her own pledged swords. They followed her, nodding to the elf and dwarf kindly, and behind her she heard Gimli snickering, Khuzdul falling from his lips.

"My Friends." She greeted each and every one, committing those newcomers to memory and finding another two friends that offered bows and throwing knives to their little gang of thieves and undesirables. She clasped hands, offering them touch and kindness, not willing to have a band pledged to her she did not know. She was not a king to command armies, and she'd not think herself above them. It seemed there was no true shortage of skilled fighters here in Rohan, but most had little interest in obeying any king or riding in an eorod, and so they'd not been exiled with Èomer's army. Following her was a sign of rebellion even there, on what may be their last night. She gathered them, clad in rusted, cheap armour and their own rags and rough clothes in an empty ante chamber. She detailed to each the assignments she'd at last agreed with Théoden and his guard. Some were sent to the walls with skill in throwing and arrows, Köttr was set to filling quivers unless the wall was breached, the nine fighters and axe men, strong as they were, were in the courtyard carrying supplies and seeing to their barricades unless it came to brawling.

"When the battle comes, my friends," She spoke quietly, all her strange grouping around her and their heads bowed low. Shame curled in her belly at her order, but she gave it none the less. "You protect my friends. Eyes and ears on the man, the elf and the dwarf with the steps you can spare, you understand?"

"Because you need 'em?" Lyk, one of the brawlers that was pledged to her scowled, and she knew he'd lost his brother in the Warg attack, the sting of it still upon him. "We swore ourselves to  _you_  because you're one of us, Hed, not some strangers you fancy."

"I need no protection tonight. if I die, I die well. I do not command this of you. I'm not your king or your commander, my friends. Drútdéor is no army and we're not bound by law and blood." She said, her voice rising, giving them a truth no king would offer, a weakness she could give them because she knew them. "But I ask this of you because I believe it is right. Know if they are lost there may be no glory left for men, no freedom, no wild lands. Save them not because I order you to, but because Middle Earth needs them beyond this battle."

Stars she knew how selfish she was.

There, fifteen strong men and women wielding their weapons, and she did not inspire them to protect the gate, to protect the Eorlings that might've been her people. No, she was weak enough to think only to beg for the lives of those she loved. But if everyone in this city fell and they survived, she could not despise herself for asking it. Around her old greybeards and young boys were being armed and fitted for mail, and the company pledged to a false princess had saved her a shirt, silver and rusted but strong. The links felt cold to touch. She bid them return to the armoury, slipping back into the quiet they'd left behind in their wake.

Aragorn had returned it seemed, and in all the silence he was locked, shouting in beautiful, vicious Sindarin with Legolas. It had shocked her, but as much as it had made sense. Legolas was afraid here, walled up in rock with an axe above his head, the ageless elf was not as eager as Aragorn to fight to his death.  _Wise elf._

 _"Then I shall die as one them!"_ It was when Aragorn snapped, his words in common tongue and their meaning building only more fear in their army that her jaw clenched.

Her group slipped inside, but he did not see them as he stormed from the room, throwing down an old axe so loud it clattered, echoing around the room. She watched him, swallowing down her fear, but she'd give him the space he sought, give him a little peace. She stepped away, clearing a bench of old and broken knives and setting down her shield

"Ansor, will you hold this steady?" She asked of a thin and quick swords man from near Harad. As she emptied her pockets, silver nails, old and bent but sharp enough scattered across the table. From below she drew the short old hammer from the blacksmiths that was long abandoned and half destroyed.

"You'd do well to do it as well." She said, seeing his furrowed brow. Even in their circles this lacked some integrity - to hide behind a shield and still make their enemies bleed so. And it was poor for travelling and sneaking, hard to miss and hide, unwieldy and ungraceful as it was. In a battle like this, it did not matter.

"And what weapon is this?" Gimli asked, eyeing her as he thumbed through the mail, all too long and too tight on his stocky frame.

"Some Eorling rogues that use a shield like mine drive nails through its wood." The holes those nails had made in her shield were painted over well, hiding them from view and easy to mistake for dented wood, but she could see them still. "Boromir told me a shield is another weapon, this makes it a more deadly one." She muttered the flat of her hammer ringing as the first nail sank in through the wood, the sharp point protruding from its face half the length of her thumb and sharp. Her hammer rang, sinking sharp points through the wood again and again. The paint was near destroyed, hardly any of the white horse left on its face, and peppered with shimmering points until she was satisfied.

When it was done she gathered up the armour she'd set aside and put her friends to work. She asked them to help the civilians there with their weapons, old fingers unable to heft the heavy axes they were offered or unable to buckle their plate. With her orders made she slipped back from the room, following her friend. He did not have time enough to spend in anger.

Aragorn was alone in the same quiet antechamber she'd found, the low walls a little too close and the warm orange light making it feel over warm. He looked at her as she stood in the doorway, already dressed for war as she was and hefting the armour she'd brought him. His chest rose and fell hard, still pent with anger and fight from his sharp words shared with Legolas.

"You seem very eager to die again so soon," She murmured, offering him the mail she'd brought and he took it, thumbing the shining metal links to test their wear. It was not fit for a king, but it was the best she could offer him. His eyes went to her own mail, strong as it was, to the section just above her shoulder that was loose, a hole bored through the chain from a distant wound. She did not need to guess that the armour had been so cleaned to chip away old blood stains before it was given to her. He didn't answer her words, a scowl still on his lips.

"I'd have you dressed in better armour this night," He said, thumbing the weakened links on her shoulder.

"You may not believe it, but beneath yours and the kings this may be the best in all Helms Deep." She said, her mouth lifting to a smile to make him look less dour, less angry as her mail rang underneath his fingers. His mood did not lighten, but even to herself, her smile felt false. Death hung between them like an immobile cloud, like it was melting into the very rock.

"I would still have you safer than this." He muttered as if there was more to his words and she knew there was. She felt bold in the low light of the antechamber. She'd likely not survive this night. She was a good fighter, tried and true, but she'd fall gladly knowing her orders were kept to. Knowing her friends were safe for her. If she needed to, she'd shield all of them from every blow and not let them see battle beyond it. Secure in that knowledge, that perhaps she need never fear her station or his scolding she reached for him, drawing his hand from her mail, fingers stroking slowly over the pulse throbbing in his wrist, warm and strong.

"But not yourself? I feared you fell once today," she whispered, and her voice steady and near cold, but it was a mask he would recognise within her. Wrecked as she was she hated that weakness. She looked to the floor, swallowing. "You speak of valour the way Èowyn does, but you'll do greater things than dying here in the dirt." Her words shaky she turned her head away fully, not wanting to look at him as. "All Middle Earth needs you to survive this, to save them, and you'd die here in this  _hole_ for what? To be courageous? To be bold?"

"So you'd have us turn and flee as well?" He snapped, standing suddenly and her hand fell away.

"I would have  _you_  flee!" She snapped, standing to follow him. Were she as brave, as valiant and courageous as she'd always dreamed she'd go to her war here, and by the stars she'd die here on the rock. But to think of him dead beside her - that frightened her more than anything. "You and Legolas and Gimli, in the end, all of you will  _matter_ , all of you can change the tide in this war. But not here - not from this rock and not from a grave outside its doors! One day you'll rule the world of men - you'll make the white tree bloom again and they  _need_  you to do it!"

Her breath heaved, coming too quick, face red but she did not understand his foolishness. When all the world lay on his shoulders when the fate of Gondor was with him, how could he stay?

"I tell you to run while you still can!" She snarled, knowing her face was flushed with anger. That he would dare throw away his life so, for a country and a cause that was not his own. It was brave, the stuff of stories, but a story that would end them all. He stared at her like a shade again, as if he understood nothing of her, his own teeth bared in the anger they shared.

"And what of  _you_?" He shouted, the sound echoing throughout the cave. "What of all  _you_  will do in this war and this world?" She opened her mouth to argue, anger still coursing through her, but he caught her, his hand ensnaring her wrist to hold her. His eyes were on her, taking in her face as if he feared he would forget her. His shoulders were still rising and falling fast, anger still within him but that fire calming as they looked on one another. When he spoke again his voice was quiet, that strong timbre that made her feel warm and at home, that made her think of leather and firesides, and his eyes were lidded, looking at her like he knew her. "What of all those that need you?" He whispered the words as if they burned him, pressing his forehead against hers, breath mingling and the two of them hot with anger and fear. And he moved so suddenly she could not comprehend it.

He was warm against her, his lips dry and sweet and tasting her own in a desperate, hungry kiss. He was pipe smoke and bread and sweet wine and she chased the taste of him. His hand went to the back of her neck, slowly winding into the red gold mess of her at her nape and her own arms slipped around his broad shoulders. His body was strong, warm and pressed against her own and moulded to her, her heartbeat soaring. She could not feel her fear now, even her anger was quelled, turned to something else until they parted, both their breath quick and shared and shocked, his hands moving to cradle her freckled cheeks, his rough skin making her eyes fall shut.

"If I thought you'd go I'd ask you to go safely to the glittering caves," he said, and her eyes went to his lips, soft and wet as they were and curled into a teasing smile. Her heart felt full, swelling and she could deny no longer her feelings for him. And she knew how foolish, how impossible it was. There was no future between them, but tonight there was no future at all, together or apart and it didn't matter. "But I know you belong on that wall as much as I."

She laughed, her forehead pressed against his own, sharing their quick breath as she shook her head. "Ask it and I'll dispatch you myself. Middle-earth be damned." They grinned together, quiet and sweet, still both somewhat reverential like courting tweens. The thought made her blush as she pulled away slowly. In all the kisses she'd shared, this one felt the most weighted, made her ache for another and another she may never get.

She took his left hand in her own, bowing her head as she brought his wrist to her lips and kissed the inside of it, smelling horsehair and sweat, hearty and sweet where her token sat. Shouting, begging would not stop him from fighting this war. Her father had already tried such to keep her safe, and it had only made her more reckless.

"Fight, Aragorn, it seems you have to. But  _live_." She swallowed, deftly, turning to pick up the forgotten mail shirt and offer it to him.

As he dressed Legolas found them there, buckling his vambrace over his forearm, the horsehair knot hidden away behind the white tree insignia he'd taken from Boromir when he fell. When the elf offered their king his sword she slipped away, giving them the peace they needed as she rounded a corner, helping Gimli as he struggled with an over long mail shirt. In the background she could hear the lilting strains of elvish speech, and she was glad Legolas had faith in him. Her own had waned and shook, but the elf was right.  _They were wrong to despair._

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drútdéor - Wild Friends, Old english, (As far as I can work out, if anyone has a better translation I welcome it).
> 
> Just a note to say I won't be updating for the week, so sorry, but wanted to leave you with this before I went! Your reviews have been giving me life and look, we're almost at 100 follows!
> 
> I've been updating a lot of my previous chapters, nothing heavy plot-wise, but there have been some improvements in earlier chapters to Boromir and Hedda's relationship.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I, I will be king_
> 
> _And you, you will be queen_
> 
> _Though nothing will drive them away_
> 
> _We can be Heroes, just for one day_
> 
> _We can be us, just for one day_
> 
> \- Heroes, David Bowie

 

The bow was not her greatest gift, but she did not think against an army of 10,000 there would be much potential to miss. In the cool night, their numbers had swelled, elvish archers hefting great weapons and shining armour guarded their walls now. In the far distance, heavy strains of armoured feet fell and the fires lit the night. The Uruks were coming, their drums thrumming through the night, impossible to ignore. She was separated from Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli, but she could still see them fifty yards from her, at the very front of the fray where the wall curved. Well, Gimli's head did not clear the wall, but she knew he was there. She could not leave her own group unmanned, and Legolas and Aragorn had the elves around them - likely better protection than her own band could offer. A good thing, she supposed, her thoughts were already too entangled with thoughts of Aragorn, fighting beside him she'd likely not be able to concentrate on the orcs in front of her. Only Köttr stood by her side, an utterly different companion to her fellowship but she trusted her as well as her regal friends. Half her party was down in the courtyard, awaiting the fray and the rest were spread throughout the wall, giving some skill and strength to the groups of too old and too young Eorling warriors.

Her feet shifted on the old stone, swallowing down her heart as it rose in her throat. She was loathe to leave Aragorn most of all, but to be parted from Legolas and Gimli too set her nerves on edge, even with the protection she'd begged for them. Above her thunder cracked, lightning slicing through the dark air. The Uruks gained on them, spears raised the horde was uncountable, filling the valley before them like a long shadow cast by their castle. She felt afraid, her feet leaden but fighting the urge to jump the wall and flee to the high mountains.

She could hear her king, Aragorn calling out in elvish to their new numbers, giving them strength, giving them honour and it swelled her heart, even if she could not understand those words. The old men and young boys, half her own party would not know his words, they would have no orders and encouragement, their king down in the stands with the brawlers to command. As rain began to fall, soaking the stones beneath them she whistled, high and long to gain the attention of her Drútdéor down the line. It was no regal call but it drew half a dozen eyes to her across the wall. She saw Tanner's eyes, standing mere strides from Legolas's back, peering out through the crowds. Her whistle drew the eye of more than just her people, but Aragorn too, returned to his place on the wall, the elves and the dwarf and the small army of Rohan's people looked to her. Tiny Köttr beside her looked up at her, a belt slung over chest filled with knives as long as her arm to little finger blades.

Among the perfect faces of elves her small troop stood out, hefting their bows with loud crows that made her grin. The grey clouds above them swelled and burst at last, heavy rain spilling on them like an ocean. She slammed the butt of her bow into the stone and screamed her own battle cry, the Rohirric words strong and beautiful and old. And they were hers.

_"Déorfeohtan! Déorafor!"_

And it was taken up by more than a few rogues and thieves, but called by a hundred man in battered armour, shaking legs and weak arms. The elves called it too, the words likely as foreign to them as Sindarin to her. It was a call that filled the air, even over the heavy flood of rain and the roar of the Uruks beneath, screamed to the very stars again and again like a prayer.

The first arrow flew from her left, sailing into the orc horde like a star across the night. Far across the wall the elves nocked their bows but held them steady, gleaming silver weapons perfect and shining in the moonlight, a pattern of curves and sharp arrows over the crumbling stone. She nocked her own bow, the old wood creaking slightly with age but she looked to her king, awaiting his order. Aragorn called out in elvish, his arm raised and all around her, the old men with shaking eyes watched him, waiting until he cast it down with elvish on his tongue. Arrows flew, every man that could, elvish, Eorling and Rogue let fly, and wordless Köttr left her side, flitting away to steady aged hands and fill quivers, light and quiet as a dancer. She did not watch her go, filling her bow again and readying for her next shot, aiming into the dark mass of bodies and armour beneath her. The first line of beasts fell, but like rats the next merely climbed over their corpses, their number so huge it seemed there was little need to help or heal the hurt, merely using them as a stepping stone to gain on the wall. And gain they did. A ladder clashed to the wall beside her, hooked ropes flying to secure it and dragging down the body of a grey beard beside her, falling with a scream to the ground he was trampled.

She drew her sword, hacking at the ropes until they severed but already Uruks had climbed two-thirds of the way. So close she could see the snarling teeth behind his armour, hefting a thick axe and swinging it carelessly. She whistled low to snatch an archer elf's eye long enough for him to help her shove the ladder from the wall, the beasts near to the top falling with it and letting out long screams of black speech. One ladder was felled but it seemed a dozen more rose in their place, beasts melting into their ranks and scattering their lines. The men of Rohan drew sword and axe and mace as it came to fighting.

It became chaos, it became war.

Fear was too engulfing for her to feel, her head far above the battle and the weight of her wet clothes and armour, hair sticking to her neck and sweat painting her skin. She hefted her heavy shield and swung, the iron rim knocking so hard into one beast trying to breach the walls he fell from the wall, unbalanced and ungainly, his body knocking half a dozen from their ascent up a close ladder. Slowly she inched her way toward Aragorn, toward the north way where he commanded, but it was slow work, her shield taking blow after blow as she slashed and wounded on her way. But her shield was a strong weapon too, the slim nails driven through it making bloody, hideous pain prickle among the faces and arms and backs of monsters.

When she turned once more, nearing her fellowship she saw Tanner beside her. He touched her shoulder, breathing heavy and face red with exertion, the cut on his temple from their battle with the wars split open again and bleeding heavily. He had a flask in hand and she laughed as she buried her blade in the belly of an Uruk that had made his way onto the wall.

"Is the battle so hopeless?" She screamed, hair plastered to her face as he hefted the flask to her eye and he laughed alongside her. "Too many ladders!" He called through the din. He signalled for her to protect his back as he leaned over the wall and she did, sword swinging to give him space from Eorling, elf and uruk alike. He poured its contents swiftly, needing mere time to affect his work and soaked the highest rungs of the ladder in it. With a shout, she slashed her sword down on a brutish beast climbing the wall to reach his back as he lit a match to the pitch soaked wood. The wood flared, flames leaping high and barring the uruk path up, fire lighting the wall as the wood burned and cracked.

"We must stop their path to the wall! I have you guarded!" She shouted, hand slamming down on his back, dragging him onto the walkway above the wall, climbing to stand on the uneven stone, a faster path along the wall that through the brawl on the main path. Tanner followed behind her and she swept a path for him, the blade slicing through any that drew near to the wall, any beast that near cleared his ladder or tried to fell her friend and her.

She kept her balance low, head bowed, it would make little sense to be seen standing there and so easily pushed from the fort wall. As Tanner lit another ladder aflame an uruk, dripping with pitch and dry leather burned, his flaming limbs scrambling at the edge of her leather coat as he and his ladder fell. She screamed as she lost her balance, shield falling from her hand heavy on the rock path, by the very tips of her fingers hanging onto the rough stone as the flaming beast clung to her, trying to drag her down with it, trying to light her aflame.

Her balance for nothing against his weight. In her ears she could only hear roaring, screaming, not certain if it was the battle or her own blood within her as she kicked her legs hard, landing her sole to the creatures face so hard she felt it's ugly stump of a nose shatter and his grip loose, falling into the pit of his brothers beneath. She pulled herself up, arms screaming at her own weight as she leapt the wall back onto the main path, sword swinging as she jumped to fell some armoured shadow in her path. She heard Gimli shouting above the rest, crying out his count like a mantra. His brayed voice called twenty-three as she saw him at last, Tanner skidded to his side to fell a beast that swung for his head. She was half a dozen strides away when a creature flitted past her. Köttr, knives in hand was stained with black blood so entirely she looked a shadow.

Battle was new, it was terrifying, and one such as this it was hard to tell friend from foe. She could not look to her friends, to her soldiers as she wished, she could not protect them well enough. She could only think, sword biting and shield lost beyond the reach of her arm, with every distraction, every time she looked for them she near lost her head for it. She was animal instinct, without discipline and grace, just cutting. When the sound came, crashing through the air she thought she'd lost her mind, the very rock falling away beneath her feet. It was no magic she had seen, a flash undoing the very rock beneath them. It felt very slow, and idly she thought of the tales of stone giants, throwing rocks in the misty mountains.  _Has Gandalf returned?_ She dreamed.

As the world fell away beneath her feet, eyes on the stars his name came, unbidden.  _Aragorn!_ She wasn't certain if she screamed aloud as she lost her feet. A scream ripped through her as fell heavy on her back in a different world. Her ears rung, eyes foggy she lifted her heavy head up from the stone floor. The wall was breached, heavy stone still falling when she rose, snarling and in agony but blade still sharp and limbs still able to move, using the walls edge to keep her standing and look down into the inner ring wall. Uruks flooded the breach, too many within the wall and she screamed her battle cry again, for herself, for her bravery. Around her lay the dead and dying, crushed beneath the fallen rock, burnt and bloody, but she still stood. Some still survived on the wall, throwing rocks and rubble, spears, some still with bows in hand to stem the tide along the cause way.

Below her, there in flat yard she could see Aragorn calone with sword in hand as the beasts came through. A better person may have helped the guard on the wall stop the flow from gaining entrance to the castle, but she was running before she knew. To see him unguarded she screamed his name, leaping from the battlement to the stair below, speeding her path and landing heavy half way down. But when she looked again he did not stand alone. Tanner had found him first and stood by his side, though his face was obscured by thick red blood his two swords were clear, drawn and dangerous beside him. As the horde washed upon them like waves on rock she watched him war a moment. He stepped quickly before her king, casting sword and axe blade aside to clear a path before Aragorn as he ordered the elven army behind to fire, arrows flying.

She roared, grinning and proud as she fell upon the horde from their right, surprising them from the higher ground, a few steps above them. She kicked out her boot, knocking it hard into the face of one beast and shoving him into the dirt hard, watching as he was trampled by his own. When they noticed her, they following her path up the stair, gaining on her as her sword slashed into the weak links between neck and throat, arm and chest, thigh and hip. She'd no shield now, and without it she used her speed and not her strength, sword quick and sharp, flashing in the moonlight and quick on her toes as she cut her path down the stair.

It was a moment of foolish pride that made her kick out her boot again, foot snapping to silence the roar of a beast. His black, beady eyesfell on her and mouth gaping with black speech and broken teeth. Her heel slammed into its mouth, shattering what was left of the black stumps in its mouth in a bloody fountain but its armoured hand snatched her ankle hard, dragging her to the ground with a scream of vicious pain, her back slamming hard into the rock and winding her. He held her to the stone, his blade hefted to strike, spitting blood down like rain upon her. She snapped out her hand, cradling her sword loosely in her fingers and burying it in the meat of the creature's thigh, making it stumble and let her go long enough to roll, throwing herself from the high stair and landing so hard on her back it jarred her bones, making her see stars.

Her body may fell have been made of cloth as she stood, level with the army, outnumbered by dozens and within the orc army itself. She ducked, cursing sharply as a morning star missed her head by mere inches, the blow shattering the stone wall behind her and she dove, slashing through the beasts ankles to avenge the blow. She fought hard, cutting them down where she could, and beyond the river she could see Legolas skimming the opposite steps, arrows sailing to join them in the pit and Köttr followed behind him like a ghost, her blades drawn and face a bitter, animal snarl.

Her muscles were screaming, her breath so tight in her chest she felt half certain she could not survive even her own body as she gained on what she could see left of Drútdéor and her fellowship. She stayed close to Legolas and Gimli as he emerged from the water beneath their feet, weighed down and wet with blood. When she saw them both well she turned her eye back to Aragorn and Tanner, still bitterly raging through the battle, fighting back to back with her rogue friend matching his every step. He was following her orders, to protect him, with more fight than she could have dreamed.

Her attention caught Legolas, Gimli and Köttr flying past her, and she heard Gimli, gleeful and wild shout her name like this was a tourney. She made to follow them, wanting to keep on their heels, but in her haste, she was set upon. A stone weight slammed down into the back of her head, knocking her to the ground. She fell heavy, her hands carving furrows into the dirt and knees sinking into the water, unable to shout or scream, hardly able to breathe or think beyond her hands as her skull felt rattled. She could feel the air around her, heavy, animal panting of the orc beast that had hit her hefting to strike again. Her eyes screwed shut, breath caught in her throat she shielded her head.

She waited for sword and spear or axe to bury itself in her prone back but she couldn't stand, she couldn't see, she couldn't fight. Ahead she heard someone scream her name, but her eyes were too clouded to make out who. No blow came. She was still, untouched in the dirt. She reached a hand slowly to her head, half expecting to find her skull shattered and bloody but there was only a screaming pain. She climbed to her feet in the mud, her legs feeling weak as rope and stumbled back toward the high wall. Bitterly she fell back against the stone, using it to leverage her steps far enough away to take some pause. Her eyes were dazed, the dark world slow and quiet around her as her head rung. She leaned her head against the stone, gasping for breath as the fog cleared some until the screaming and the roars of both armies filled her ears once more.

She felt a hand clasp down on her shoulder and roared, turning with sword raised to fell whatever foe touched her, ready once more for battle. But it was Tanner, weakly using her for support. His face was painted red from wounds all over, and he was weak, hardly able to stand. She knotted an arm around his waist, dragging him back to her shelter beneath the stair as he leaned on her. With shaking hands he pushed aside his cloak, and there on his side was a long, deep wound, bitten into him with a terrible weapon and spilling faster than a river flowed.

He fell to his knees, life fading from his eyes and she fell to her own beside him, her arms knotted around his waist to lay him gently down against the stone. The mud and water cold, soaking into her flesh. To his neck his numb fingers went, pulling his pendant from his shirt and mail, the hair red and wet with blood, but his clumsy fingers clung to it. When she looked up a moment, eyes foggy with exhaustion, she could not see her ranger king, and she was terrified.

When he whispered, his voice was choked with blood that bubbled on his lips, and she could see emotion breaking through the bloody mask he wore. Tears traced clean paths through thefilthh in his eyes, thumb tracing the knot between his fingers. " _Safe,_ " He promised, voice shaking and breaking, falling back against the stone. His hands tugged at the rope around his neck until it snapped, the hair pendant clutched in his hand he shoved it toward her, begging her to take it from him. Her sword slipped from her fingers to take it, her knife loose in her left. "Thank you - thank you," She whimpered, weakly, not knowing what to offer him, how to honour him. She had known him near six years and knew not a thing about bringing him peace or comfort, all the years she'd known she'dnever had to send away a dying man, she'd never owed anyone that before. She had no time to speak, to mourn him as a beast fell upon her from behind, his blade hefted and only her knife, loose in her hands. Severing the delicate veins in his upper thigh stilled him, bathing the ground the body of her friend in black ichor. When she felled the beast, standing on shaking legs to loose its head from its shoulders with her sword, snatched from the ground, he was gone. His eyes still open and staring but flat and cold. His mouth was open, but through the din she'd not heard him speak the pretty woman's name. A name she'd never known, the woman flaxen, skilled in knots and tapestry and gone. A woman who would never know what he had done out of love for all of them.

She cursed herself for not having the words to comfort him, that he should die here in the stone for a cause and a king he didn't love. He died on the battle for her, because she had ordered him to protect her fellowship, because he had protected her. The beast that had blinded her was ended by his swords, that much was clear. She was distracted by a hand knotting into her own, dragging her away from him but she reached down first, snatching the flask of pitch from him waist and that gave her some life. Köttr, pretty Köttr pulled her away from her hidden place by the wall, and it was only then she heard the shouting of her king on the barricade. He was calling them to fall back to the keep. They had lost the outer wall.

But within there were more warriors. They might yet survive.

She and Köttr were quick, sweeping ahead of what survived of their force, and among them their pair grew to four, Lyk and Rat the archer joining them as they retreated to the hall. Within, there was still some of her force, the brawlers and the battalion of greybeards and boys, alongside Théoden's household guard. She barrelled her way through they to the gate, splintered and broken as it was with the orc army breaking through, swords and spears featuring the gaps in the great wooden gate. At the head of the force Théoden commanded, strong in precious, enabled helm and battle within him. As she halted beside him, chest rising hard with exertion she met his eye, sword driving through the neck of a beast whose blade fell upon his plated chest. His guard dragged him back from the fray and she followed, her breath heavy.

"We can't hold much longer!" He cried, holding the aged man against the rough hewn rock and she took his place, steadying him, throwing one of his mailed arms across her shoulder to free the guard to fight, to hold the shattered door.

"They have rams, numbers and unnatural fire, we must keep them as far from the causeway as we can!" She shouted, and he nodded, though his face looked as stricken. Battle mad, she guessed or afraid, she feared. A heavy hand fell against her waist and Aragorn swung beside them, sword hefted he made for the gate. "If I can get to the causeway I can slow their path, bar the way a while!" She shouted, her own words wild. Foolish as it was, she asked for his help.

"Aragorn!" He shouted toward her true king, demanding this of him like a commander and he turned, his eyes alighting on her. After this battle was done, she would have time to smile, to be glad he yet lived, as it was, in the middle of all of this, she could only jerk her chin, her hand reaching out to snatch the back of Gimli's cloak as he barrelled past, pulling him back toward the door Théoden knew.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Déorfeohtan - Fight Wild
> 
> Déorafor - Fight Fierce
> 
> And a Bonus Song:
> 
> Tanners Song. (This doesn't represent his relationship to Hedda, but himself as a whole and it breaks my damn heart).
> 
> Why am I so emotional?  
> No, it's not a good look, gain some self-control  
> And deep down I know this never works  
> But you can lay with me so it doesn't hurt
> 
> \- Stay with me, Angus and Julia Stone


	23. Chapter 23

It was a short, rocky path, but beside the causeway, there was an old service door, rusted on its hinge and looking down into the deep pits dug around their fort. Aragorn took the head of their party, clinging to the rock, Hedda was their centre and Gimli behind, his big body seeming impressively agile on the slim path. It was a strange quiet, enough for him to catch the breath that scratched his throat like nails, and for one brief moment, he felt Hedda's hand against his, knotting with her fingers just long enough to take comfort in them. He peered out, quiet as a shadow to the battle raging on the causeway before he whispered, his body returning to flatten against the rock. "It's a long way." He said, but a small grin painted his lips. His eyes went from the rogue to the lordly dwarf, both as bloody and battered, but both ready. Gimli held no fear. Gimli was ready for battle, boldy ordering the ranger king to throw him into the fray his own legs could not reach.

"I cannot jump the distance so you have to toss me." He snapped, bitterly embarrassed by it but not willing to miss this fray because of it. He bit her lip around a grin as he continued. "Don't tell the elf!" He nodded his head seriously and promised him that much, the old joke bringing him some comfort he needed.

"Not a word."

But she did not, her sword hefted in her hand and knife in the other, she merely smirked at her friend, "It will be the first thing I say when we see him again," She said as he threw Gimli into the battle, his axe hacking at the surprised mass.

"Offer me the same and I'll throw you from this ledge," She warned him, her eyes bright and blood, red and black lining her clothes and face.  _This is dangerous,_ he thought, thinking of more than just their plot and the pitch at her side. She slipped by him, smelling of smoke and her teeth bared, battle in every inch of her body, wild and wounded as she was.  _Wounds you did not protect her from._

Aragorn followed swiftly behind, roaring out the battle cry she'd begun on the walls.  _Fight wild, fight fierce_. Wise words, wild words. When his feet fell on the hard stone she shouted, long and true, her blade slicing through the first orc that tried to shove her off the path, forcing herself into the centre, body barging through the crowd of them, her back as much a weapon as her sword to stem the tide.  _where is her shield?_  He thoughts suddenly, seeing her without the spiked thing she'd battered and killed with before. The three of them stayed close, protecting the gate with their backs together, slashing and cutting without skill.  _She should have her shield._

"Cover me!" She shouted, far enough from the broken gate to do her work and he did, flattening his back to hers and stemming the tide, barring the way to her and to the gate with his blade, Gimli beside him, the two knocked body after body without thought from the edge.

Behind him he heard the wet sound and felt pitch on his soles as her flask burst and spilt, pitch painting the centre of the causeway two men wide. Her and Tanner's fire on the wall had been difficult to miss, the two dancing atop the edge setting fires where they stepped, lighting the wall up like torches. It would not stop them, but it would slow them long enough to fortify the broken door. Aragorn parried a blade mere inches from her bowed head, his eyes wide and worried as she struggled, light flaring and daring at her fingers, but not lighting long enough. Her own matches were wet, her hands shaking so and the quarters closer than she had known on the wall. Her hands were not quick enough to light the spark, to set the pitch aflame and she snarled, but he could not offer his help, blade biting into his own, pushing him back a step as he kicked away a beast trying to dive between he and Gimli like a rat.

Behind them he heard Théoden shout their names, ordering back as he barred the gate behind him. They had missed her chance, and now it seemed, they were likely as not to die here on the bridge. The tide was unstoppable, the way back barred and their strength weakening moment by moment. He could feel the three of them as one being pushed back, closer and closer toward that barred gate. What way back was there? It was the heavy weight of a rope falling upon them that renewed his heart, calling out a victory as Gimli swung himself up in, heavy and ungainly but hanging on. He turned, ungrand and ungently he reached for her looping his arm around her waist and yanking her from the bridge as it was lost. But as he kicked the rope away the pitch fire flared, half the bridge alight in a wall of orange flame that missed them by a hand or so.

She screamed in joy, her arms flung around him to steady herself as they watched the bridge, hot and orange the creatures fled back from it, heat and light barring their path for now. She crowed, watching the beasts feet go up in flames where they were painted with fiery pitch scrabble like rats back and from the bridge sides. They were dragged up the wall like cargo, but it was respite enough, heart racing so fast in his ears he could hardly hear the kings orders until he flung his arms around his elven friend, his hands burning and bitten by the coarse rope. But it was not enough pause or peace. He could hear all around them as they crested the wall - Théoden calling them to fall back. Abandoning the fort.

They made for the great hall. Running on weak, exhausted limbs Aragorn kept pace with her, unwilling to leave her side in battle again, their fellowship was best unbroken. Through the battle he'd sought her, seen only flashes of her in the distance, circled in flame and pitch as they felled the ladders, diving from the stair into a river of creatures, sword raised and strong. She was brave in battle, reckless here and a part of him wished again he need not fear for her so.  _You do not feel the same fear for Gimli and Legolas._

When they entered the great hall it was eerie and silent, but light, lit by fire and the grey walls leant less darkness to their surroundings. It had seemed this night had measured many, that this battle had raged for days. Théoden seemed himself in a dream, weary, sad as he spoke to their forces in the hall, a few bloody members of Hedda's own there beside them, standing at her shoulder. "The fortress is taken. It is over." Hedda stood with her short, tiny friend, the girls knives still glinting in her belts and a few taller, strong men that were bruised and battered. She ordered them to the door, upending old furniture to barricade it against the horde that would be upon them soon.

Aragorn would not accept it, rage and battle still in his blood he stormed toward the old, golden king. "You said this fortress would never fall while your men defend it. They still defend it. They have died defending it!" But Théoden would not answer, looking into the distance, as if the rock would hold some answer. He was in shock, in shock or mad or hopeless it mattered not. He turned toward his guard, if their king would not command, he would take up that mantle, much as he had never wanted it.

"Is there no other way for the women and children to get out of the caves?" The men ignored him, looking to their silent king. He seemed in a dream, hardly there to hear him and it only enraged him. What right did he have to leave them now? What right did he have to flee in his mind when all of them should by rights be trapped here?  _"Is there no other way?"_ He shouted, turning toward the gilded guard and not the failing king. He felt more than saw Hedda leave his side, slipping like a shadow to the king's arm, head bowed to him.

Gamling looked terrified, his resolve faltering, gaze going between his fearful king and Aragorn's order until, eventually, he gave in. "There is one passage. It leads into the mountains. But they will not get far. The Uruk-hai are too many." He reached for him, hands splayed on his shoulders and not willing now to be disobeyed by the orange-haired kings guard.

"Send word for the women and children to make for the mountain pass. And barricade the entrance!"

"There's weapons hidden in those caves - Shaka knows where, ensure everyone that can carry a sword is armed! Èowyn will lead them well and Shaka has mail enough for her," Hedda spoke up, voice clear and commanding, and Gambling nodded, not fighting her for a moment for her order as he sped from the room. All her talk of Èowyn not seeing battle, of not spilling Rohan's blood and she had taken that precaution still.

Théoden was still distant, far away and wounded. When he spoke, he spoke in a broken whisper to his daughter, their heads bowed together. "So much death. What can men do against such reckless hate?" Beside him Hedda swallowed, her eyes darting around the lit hall at last her eyes fell on him as if debating her course. When she looked away she offered out her hands, taking those of the old king, and when she spoke it was with more certainty than he'd heard from her. It was with truth and fear, aye, but it was with honour.

"They can fight together, Father," Her hair, damp by the rain and sticky with blood and ichor was wild, curling and red. She reached into the neck of her tunic, gathering something in her fist she offered it to him slowly, as if she might spook the king, like she tended a half wild horse. As he watched, he knew Hedda's calm and her mind had won out against her anger, and he watched, standing a few strides back and still.

Balled in her fist she unfurled her bloody, bruised fingers, offering it to the frightened man before them both. With his free hand he reached out to take it, a pale, bloody hair amulet hung on a snapped string of leather. "You will not fail them now. You will honour them." She said, voice quiet, kinder than his own could be.

The barred door shuddered and cracked, the fell beasts pounding on it. They had broken through the burning bridge, it seemed, rode down the causeway. The king looked up, the pendant clutched in his fingers.

When Aragorn spoke, he was was gentler, seeing his anger had not been wise. "Ride out with us. Ride out and meet them." He urged hand on the old kings shoulder.

Théoden smiled gently, meeting his eye and there was fire there, familiar and wild growing. "For death and glory?" He asked Aragorn, looking for all the world as if he were japing now.

"For Rohan. For your people."

"For  _life_. For bravery." Hedda demanded, her voice strong she met Aragorn's eye, her perfect green glowing with the same war they shared, bloody and tired but ready. She spun to what was left of her thieves, crying out their battle chant once more, the chant that had made the wall come alive, the old and the young knotted together by her orders.

"Déorfeohtan! Déorafor!" They chanted again and again as their group ran, making for the stables, her squad readying the cavalry with more speed and courage than a truer army. "Fight Wild, Fight Fierce!" Sang through the hall heavier than a drumbeat in the dark.

"The sun is rising." Gimli murmured, his hands clasped around his axe and face set looked to the high square windows, drawing their eye to the rising sun filling the cavern with pure light, and as he watched the knotted red gold locks fly behind her - he loved her.

When Gimli spoke his voice seemed near awed, and Aragorn thought back on the shaft of weak sun that had spilled over Balin's grave, the mountain tomb not so dissimilar to the one, and the battle just as ready to begin anew. As the sun rose, so once more did they, and so did Gandalf's promise.  _First light on the fifth day._

"Yes. Yes! The horn of Helm Hammerhand shall sound in the deep, one last time." Called the king, his own strength as wild as Hedda's, her thrill infectious as every man left in the hall brayed, crowing like wild beasts and ready for war once more.

"Yes!" Gimli crowed as if the battle was already won, making for the steps to sound the ancient horn, the sound brilliant and high, victories even now, as they made their last stand against this darkness.

The braying of horses filled the hall, storming over the stone they were herded in by Hedda's guard, kingly beasts fit to trample and win. They horsed quickly, stallions screaming, smelling blood upon them made them wild and ready for their war. They faced down the breaking door, watching it splinter and crack like parchment, their weapons hefted.

"Fell deeds awake. Now for wrath. Now for ruin. And the red dawn!" Théoden called, his sword raised as the door shattered, beasts flooding the hall too late - crushed beneath the kings hooves, a tide of monsters themselves as they raced from the hall and out into the courtyard, their hooves and flanks sprayed with black blood and bodies left in their wake, out, out into the sun. The causeway fell away before them, fell beasts falling away to avoid the strides of their steeds and swords. They sailed above it all, half a dozen battle cries on their lips in old Rohirrim, Westron, common and elvish. And their voices were joined by others, a greater mass that would save them all. There on The high hill, a shadow across the rising sun came the call  _'Rohirrim!"_

They were not alone. Two thousand strong, horsed, shining armoured and gold was Èomer's Eored, coming with the sun their greater number fell upon the uruk horde from behind. They stood no chance, those that fled into the forest, and screams took their place, the very woods rising up against their foe.

The battle hardly continued. The Eored dispatched the shadowy army on their step and they slashing out the stragglers that fled, mad and with nowhere to turn. It seemed before he could comprehend, that the battle was done, beasts littering the battlefield. The Eored, better rested bid them back to the fort for healing and for their strength, they would need it greatly on the morrow. Their ragged group of warriors, horses bloody and exhausted grouped once more. Hedda, her actions tired and body near limp embraced the four of her warriors that still stood. Two massive, muscled men embracing her he turned to Legolas, clasping hands and telling him of Haldir, that loss still weighing heavily upon him.

Legolas was kind, stricken by the loss of one of his own, but many had fallen to cement the bonds of elf and men once more. Speaking gently, the blonde he'd known so long interrupted his thoughts, hand on his shoulder and head bowed toward him.  _"Her knife girl took near a dozen blades for me,"_ He said, elvish flowing and mouth turned up, nodding toward Hedda and her group, just a few strides away across the field. He looked toward them, the little Köttr who's face was slashed through with cuts clung to her like a child to it's mothers skirts and she seemed as unwilling to let her go.

When Hedda looked up, her eyes found his and she smiled, holding her pretty grey mare steady as she hauled the knife girl up into the saddle with a skinny bowman behind and sent them off, giving up her horse to aide her. He did not need to bid Legolas goodbye, the elf looked at him with a well-knowing smile, shaking his head. Gimli and he had seen what grew between them since they crossed into Rohan, perhaps even sooner. At last, he strode toward her, peace and exhaustion heavy in his heart and finally he could see her true, without war and blood and darkness, her face lit only by the sunlight.

"Are you well?" He asked her, and the words seemed so useless, not enough to say what he needed as they stood one single pace away.

"I'm  _alive_ ," She said, at last, her eyes darting across him as if making sure the same could be said for him. "As are you," She said, mouth turning up to a short smile, weary and tired she reached for his left hand, finger dipping beneath his vambrace, bloody as it was until it hooked into the circlet of horsehair there, dark with sweat she drew it out into the light.

"Because of you again, I think. You didn't order your guard to man the wall," He said, his voice low, hoarse from shouting and tired, standing with the dead at his feet. There was a reproach within him. She had so righteously defied, that with fifteen good warriors at her disposal her heart was not on the wall but on them. He'd seen her trope, strange as they were and vicious, shadowing the steps of the fellowship. When her Tanner had found him he'd not left his side, barely letting him land his own blow until they found rhythm, fighting back to back like brothers. Only when he was sword to sword with a strong creature, grinning, wild with war Aragorn's had heard Hedda's scream and it had near lost him his own head in distraction. His eyes were on her, shouting her name as she was knocked into the dirt. The fell beast stood above her with mace hefted to end her and he had been powerless, unable to save her. He'd screamed for her, slashed through uruk again and again until Tanner took her blow, diving in the weapons path.

"No. I did not," She looked up to him, a small smile turning her lips as she fell forward, burying her face into his shoulder and valour the weight and warmth of her made it worth it. "I do not regret my orders." Made life and battle and victory have some  _meaning_ as he knotted his arms around her shoulders, breathing in the sweat and blood and fire smell of her and war.

"You are a reckless warrior," He muttered against her ear, feeling her shoulders shake gently with laughter and he brought up his bruised fingers, knotting them into her hair mussed with blood and rain as it was and held her against him.

"As are you," She muttered against his skin. "Were you not my wild friends may not have neededto shadow you. Battle so again and I'll cast you into your tomb myself." She promised him, making him laugh, tired but  _alive_. She moved away, seeing Legolas and Gimli some way ahead, heading back for the fort she jerked her chin, making to follow them. He walked at her side, crossing through the broken gates, both quiet, too tired to speak but staying close, unwilling to let her from his sight.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn and Hedda, as tomorrow's sun rises in Helms Deep
> 
> _Burn the bed and the dreams I've never met  
>  Those wishes were never for granted  
> So burn the bed I'll face the wind and fill my head  
> Those wishes were never for granted _
> 
> \- Weather, Novo Amor

When they funnelled through the gate into the inner wall, she could feel the strength of battle fading from her. Without the feel of his skin on hers she felt the weight of her bruises over her more heavily, exhaustion making her shoulders fall. She felt in near a dream, but she was not alone in that, her eyes on her ruined boots as they walked through the gate in a stream of warriors young and old, mingling with the women from the caves. Around her people wept, they cried for joy, they celebrated and mourned and sought their loved ones. Hands reached for her and she hissed, wincing away as if the action was still one of war, of violence. When she turned it was Èowyn, her arms thrown around her so quickly she froze before returning the action, breathing in a cleaner air around her, without the blood and grime that painted her. In the hall, in the eyes of death and destruction, she had looked to her father, to Tanner's stained connection. In the eyes of death, she had been so afraid to die as nothing, as no one's daughter or no one's friend.  _Connection_ , bloody in her hands, had saved her.

Her cos was quiet, gentle as she pushed a wrapped heel of bread and cheese into her palms, asking that she eat and rest but her cos seemed to know she needed some peace instead of more words and demands.  _Do you still think me a monster, Èowyn? Does this prove to you I am a thing of blood, that courts battle like this?_ She smiled gently, squeezing the princess's shoulder before turning and nodding to Aragorn beside her. Her eyes stayed on the floor, and she knew not what to say, not when Èowyn reached for his face with those soft, fair fingers and spoke gentle words she could not bear to hear. After whatever had been between them in a fleeting, battle mad moment, it was a reminder she needed. That she could not offer him what her cousin could. She kept her eyes on the ground, slipping in with the crowd and toward some privacy she thought she'd need. On their first night in Helms Deep Èowyn had found her a dusty chamber for her own, small, stale as it was, but she'd not taken it then, not willing to leave Legolas and Gimli as they had mourned their fallen captain. Now she would.

The door squealed, uncoiled and old but it was clean enough, a simple bedroll centring the room, a small square of a window letting in some weak sun and a clean pitcher and cloth in the corner to wash. Alone the room seemed colder than it was, her fingers fumbling with the laces of her padded over tunic, the fabric thick and crusted with blood and filth she let it fall to the floor. She reached for Boromir's band on her arm, hissing as she pulled it away from her skin and let it drop with a delicate ring to the ground. In the weight of battle it had felt tighter on her, her flexing bicep strained harder than before and the tight metal had cut into her arm through her tunic. Her mail followed, leaving her in loose and ruined leggings and her wrecked tunic, clothes piled before her sword. She knelt on the cold floor a while, silent, still, to be alone those few moments after such violence was as soothing as it was terrifying. Before her eyes dead men seemed to sail, Tanner and Theodred and Boromir, her friends she had neither the time nor the heart to mourn. In this battle and so many before, she had never let herselffeel it. If she let herself feel those losses now she feared she may never stop.

Behind her she heard a knock on the creaking door, the sound so loud she realised how quiet she had been, away from the noise and crowds. Èowyn, she guessed, humming out words of ascent she cared little to voice, gooseflesh rising on her arms in the cool air. But when the door swung open it was not Èowyn framed in its entrance. He was as bloodied as she, and a part of her was glad to see him off the field, away and alone with her. He seemed much changed when it was the two of them, alone as they were so rarely allowed to be.

"I turned and you were gone," he said in his rough, quiet voice, not accusing but surprised she'd slipped away, giving him his peace with Èowyn. He did not take a step into the room until she stood, feeling lighter without her mail. Her hands knotted together, clasped in front of her and his eyes raked over her. "Are you hurt?" He breathed, stepping into the room, catching her chin in his rough palms and tilting her eyes to meet his own. This close she could see every crease of his age, each tiny scar and bruise he wore, the flecks of dappled grey in his hair and beard. This close he would see every piece of her as well, but she found it did not frighten her now.

"Nothing that will not heal," She whispered, unable to disturb the tender silence hanging between them. She knew he was well enough, could see it in the way he held himself, better used to this kind of battle than her. When she smiled gently it was enough for him, it seemed, and he leaned closer, measuring her expression as he pressed his lips to hers again. "I thought to leave you with Èowyn. She would know better -"

"I came to give you this," His voice was so gentle it seemed half a whisper, a small smile marring his lips as he reached into his belt, drawing out a familiar pouch. Her pipe and tobacco there in his hands, taken from their shared chambers and quite forgotten in the heat of this battle. She could not contain her shaking shoulders, a small laugh raking through her as he grinned so widely, her forehead pressed against his own to share the very air with him.

In light of their battle won, the sun gold and high in the sky, she did not want to send him away. She did not want to be wise. She was selfish enough to keep him until dawn at least, selfish enough to take some respite and some prize in his company while she could. Tomorrow, the castle would look to the sun and the coming days. Tomorrow their party would clear corpse and blood from the stones of Helms Deep. Tomorrow he could think of alliances and blood, her station and his. Tomorrow he'd think of Èowyn and a future, and she would find her own path too. But tonight she could mark some fragile proof of her own bond here, with him. She leaned forward, her lips brushing against his own.

This kiss was sweet, slower than the first and not done in the heat and fear of the hours before battle. But it still made her shake with more desire than any lips she'd ever tasted. It was something she would be able to hold onto tomorrow when she could not hold onto him. Her hands went to his weary shoulders to keep him so close. Higher they traced, winding in his knotted, sweat-damp hair, stroking gently those that clung to the back of his neck. Their kiss was languid, that of new lovers and exploration, and she would not have it end in a thousand years if she could.

"Stay," She murmured, pulling away from his soft lips slowly, eyes open, looking into his through tired, heavy lids. She gave herself today, she had earned that, had she not? And she wanted it - needed it.

"I should not," He spoke, his voice a half-choked whisper and she chanced a quiet chuckle. "I would not ruin what's between us," He spoke with honour and it could have choked her. He would not ruin the friendship between them with another ill thought kiss.

"There should be nothing between us," She muttered, her eyes cast down, hating the truth of it. She was selfish enough to steal this day but kingly, true as he was, maybe he was wise enough not to feel so. Maybe he did not even want her for tonight.

"Hedda…" He whispered her name, voice a confession as he moved closer again, pressed her back against the stone wall. His hands reached for her, unlacing her vambraces deftly and slipping the light metal from her skin. Her body ached, worn and heavy, muscles crying out. "You must know what I feel for you -" He whispered, his eyes tracing her face. He spoke of tomorrow as if they had one, as if, in the sunlight of the next day she knew who she would be, and if she would be yet worthy of him. The battle would be a bloody memory by sun down but tomorrow there would be another. She interrupted him quickly, she needed to stop him from saying anything more, even as her heart swelled to lift her up, her body felt weighed down and broken by his words.

"We survived today. But I can give you only this day, I will not promise you a tomorrow I cannot know." She drew back again, her hand loosely enfolding his wrist. It seemed the resignation, the fear in her words resonated through him. Swallowing her shame, her fear, the ever-present worry he would cast her away her voice cracked but she spoke it. "But know that - that I would if tomorrow were mine to give you. If I were free to give it." She inhaled slowly, her breath feeling too heavy and too loud and the room too small, but his lips found her cheek, melting away the sharp, stabbing fear as he spoke, his voice more gentle than she could stand.

"Then I would not see this day end."

Gently, slowly, between sweet, long kisses they undressed one another, hissing sharp whines of pain as armour unveiled shallow bruises and peeled, bloodily away from skin. Wrapped in their underclothes, armour and weapons and shredded clothes forgotten he brought one wet cloth to her face, smoothing away the sticky black blood on her cheeks from the basin in their room, revealing those freckles she so detested. The water was cold, and as he traced it over her bruised and bloodied skin she hissed, feeling soothed by it. She did the same, her eyes half closed but her hands folding over his bare chest to clean the blood and bruises from him. She ran her fingers slowly through his knotted hair, brushing what she could from it. Her cheeks lightly flushed but muscles less tight and clean beside him as they lay down, another soft, sweet kiss between them.

They lay together on the pallet, half dressed, bruised and battered and his arm slung over her hips. Sleep found them soon, warm and together. She could feel his breath, slow and steady upon her shoulder and it made her smile. In the dusty room, daylight upon them her dreams were lazy and sweet, less haunted than she was used to.

When Hedda woke, they had slept through what remained of the day, the cold, grey light of the next day just before the sun told her that they'd slept through half the night as well. She faced away from him, eyes on the narrow shafts of light that spilt from the slim window. Her breathing was slow, still calm until she felt a touch on her shoulder, tracing the stars of freckles there. The fingers made a slow line from the curve of one shoulder to the other. A lazy arm wound around her waist and she sighed sweetly to be pulled back into his arms. His hands found on her abdomen a jagged, old scar, raised against his fingertips and he paused, wondering whether to ask her. Often enough he'd not pushed her to speak when she did not wish to, let her be silent, sad or secretive.

"A dull blade - I was fist fighting in Gondor for gold and he broke the rules, brought a knife into the arena," she hummed, her eyes shut as she spoke. "You can ask what you will of me, you deserve that." His hand on her skin curled into a fist as if her story angered him but it stilled quickly, unfurling to graze a slow pattern over her ribs, each one fairly sharp on her lean body, all muscle and bone. He slowly slipped down, his lips tracing the gentle curve of her spine and her bound chest and sat up, braced on one arm his every move slow with sleep, but it seemed he intended to take advantage of her rare offer. His palm was hot against her skin, curling around the back of her thigh and gently she turned, onto her back to look up at him as he swept his palm, curled around her long limb lower.

"And these?" He asked her, looking down at her as he traced his fingers over the obvious lines of dull, raised tissue on the backs of her shins. She turned her eyes away, but she had promised him the truth.

"When I left Minas Tirith I had nothing. I took work in taverns and halls as a serving girl. I was a poor server." She shrugged off his touch there, folding her legs up to her chest as she sat up, sheltering some of her body from him, but she did not look away, and his hand knotted loosely around her ankle, the faded, half-healed line from her own blade in Moria still pink and visible there.

"That is not hard to imagine," He said, a curious smile on his lips as he stroked the rough pads of his fingers over the raised scars and made her laugh softly.  _Of course she was,_ he meant,  _she served no one._

"There is an old joke in Gondor that you should never hire a scarred server, that it's proof she will not listen and will not serve well." She murmured, her eyes finding his as he touched her so gently it filled her with more fear than the harm that had given her those scars. She felt his hand flex on her leg, concealing some anger there, its root she could not be certain.

She breathed slowly, making her body relaxed as she sat up on the mattress before him as he fell closer, his hand coming to splay on her hip, over a slim line cutting down, curling up around the bone. "And this?"

"I do not know," She said eventually, her memory yielding nothing of the wound. Just another of many. Feeling his finger tracing it, making her shiver softly as his fingers curled around her hip and drew her closer, drawing her chest against his own, forehead to his and sharing breath again. Her hand slipped to his neck, fingers curling into the dark hair at the nape of his neck. His hands were on her bare waist, fingers tracing a scattered, yellowing bruise on her ribs she vaguely remembered from an orc foot slamming her into the ground. She stroked her fingertips over his strong jaw slowly, their faces close and actions sweet and gentle with one another. In the back of her mind she knew she was gluttonous, keeping him here and with her when by rights he had duty and so did she, but she could not let him go, the pad of her thumb tracing his lower lip.

"It's near morning," She spoke gently, hating the sun for daring to rise. Hating it for shattering this between them, but day and time would not slow for them.  _This is dangerous_. She thought, her breath hitching she looked to the window, to the grey light there crossing the dusty floor. She'd been selfish enough to have yesterday, here, locked away in this room with him, but with the morning and the light came duty.

"I see no sunrise," he said, his voice rough, eyes not looking to the window and she laughed, her head falling back, hand on his shoulder pulling him closer. But he was right. Grey light indeed, but it was a cloudy day on the horizon, not a trace of yellow yet shining through.  _As if the very sun has given us a little longer._

His lips followed her jaw, tracing lower, following the column of her throat, his every action and touch delicate as hers were, neither willing to hurt the other with their hands when nothing but pain could come of this. But she would not trade this for all the world. Her hands traced a gentle path down the strong, finely muscled lines of his chest, their bodies melting into one another as the light around them shifted.

They took this for themselves as a new day rose, the nights clouds faded away to show a blazing golden sun, unstoppable.

Some hours later the morning sun was impossible to ignore. Wound around one another, fingertips tracing bruises and scars she buried her lips in the crook of his neck, breathing him in, giving herself another moment there, and she took another and another with him until she could no longer.

"We are needed, Aragorn," She breathed, hiding her face in his skin, lips tracing his pulse point and dotting one last, sweet kiss to his skin before drawing away. When she did she slipped from his arms, feeling all that much colder and emptier upon leaving them. Better a quick death than a slow, drawn out one.

"We will not always be," he said, voice rough and sweet, near under his breath as he stood. Kisses still sweet on one another's lips and bliss made it difficult to feel their bruises, but duty was first. Quietly she found her discarded clothes, her body stiff and black with bloody war. She could feel his light eyes on her until he found his own, the two dressing in their ruined clothes and wearing tension around them like a cloak. He spoke of a day far distant, a day she did not know. Two paths diverged, as once they had on the path to Imladris. There was duty, honour and right, Aragorn a king on a high throne, crown upon his brow, but she knew not her place on that path, only that it could not be beside him. Behind was the path she'd chosen once, running far, fading into shadow, into what she wanted. Into freedom and the wild, a world he may be by her side and happy. But that world would end in fire, all middle earth a civilian to her selfish choice.

She bit her tongue hard to stem the feeling rising in her throat, eyes on the ground as she buckled her sword belt sharply, the leather cutting into her skin. When she spoke her words were small, hand white on the door, seeing the figure of him, blurring with tears from the corner of her eye. "First we must survive that long." Her voice cracked, and she saw him move toward her, to comfort, to be kind.

She ran.

When she rode her mare onto the field she was a mask. Hedda no balm to her now, no costume enough to fake some joy. She felt herself slipping away into that nameless girl again, quiet and still as she picked her way toward her friends. She grieved what was not hers to miss. But after such a battle, none could be surprised to see her saddened, the bodies of her friends laid together. Köttr, Rat and the brawlers, Kol and Ansor - the only of her group that survived waited for their commander beside them. Shaka was somewhere inside, tending to the frightened and the wounded, a job she did well. Not all of her group had been recovered, some thought fled at first light as the war ended, unwilling to stay any longer than they needed but still, somewhere, alive.

They buried their dead apart from the others, digging shallow trenches in the soft mud. Hedda demanded honour for her fallen friends and she was given it. They were buried, criminals and foreign friends with sword and stone to mark their place, a high honour they may never have been given. Théoden was by her side as they cast the bloodied outcasts into their graves. All around them deep furrows were dug in the dirt to mark the mass dead on this place, but he came to honour her lost friends.

Rohan's king bowed his head as she laid their stones. Èowyn found her there, beside her was her brother, and when both called her Hedda she knew her cousin had told him much. She embraced them both, her limbs still tired and weak, but she clung to them. She may not deserve them, but they had not yet cast her out. Until they did she would honour them, she would love them.

"Hedda," Théoden said at last, turning to her with clear eyes, back strong and face kind. In the battle, bathed in blood and loss she had handed him the fragile, stained  _connection_ , an offering, a balm and a token to raise his heart when all seemed lost. Slowly he set it down on Tanner's grave, the action well beyond any honour he would have deserved in life, maybe even beyond any he would have wanted, but grand all the same.

"I know not if you will take it, but know there is a place for you in Edoras." She felt his hand on her shoulder, eyes seeing little but the disturbed mud and pale stones before her feet. "I must go to Isenguard, to confront Saruman's poison and see him suffer for our fallen men. Èomer leads his cavalry well, and the warriors will need him, Èowyn does well beyond her duty to her people, to the women and the children that will need settling. But the people speak of you now, they trust you. I would have you and your cousins lead Rohan until we return." Her heart thundered, a path, brick by brick was built before her.

"As a princess? As Idis?" She asked, voice small, eyes on the ground, waiting for it all to shatter.

"Be you Hedda or Idis. Commander, princess or commoner you have a place in our hall. Only choose it."

* * *

Gandalf found her as the sun blazed, just beginning to fall past midday. They were going to Isengard, to confront and imprison the false wizard that had brought all this terror, as Théoden had said. But when she looked out over the bloody field, strewn with mud and filth and corpses still, she shook her head. She walked beside him, seeing her friends gathered in the distance, framed on the sunny crest Èomer and Gandalf had ridden in on like a dream.

"Rohan is weakened and wounded, so is my family." She said, bringing up the flat of her hand to shelter her eyes from the brilliant light. "I would stay with them until our fellowship has need of me." Gandalf, ever kind, smiled, his gracious expression made her feel shoddy by comparison.

"Hedda, my friend are you turning from adventure?" He asked her, his blue eyes remarkably bright and amused, even if her expression did not change, not willing to give him that satisfaction.

"I'm not certain I ever could. There is more I can offer here, perhaps I can call that adventure for a time," She said, feeling curiously warmed by it. The life she had carved out for herself, amidst Èowyn and Èomer, amongst her rogue friends in a hall she had once called her home - it was a better story than most. "Know that I have a duty to our quest first, I'll not abandon it until it's done." She said, making that much very clear. Their fellowship was more vital than family, than Rohan and Aragorn and stars above her. It was a duty above any. They walked in silence until she met them, her fellowship, small and broken as it was were golden and gallant beside her father and the wizard.

"Théoden bid me stay. In his place I'm to bridge Èomer's army and Èowyn's people. In the kings place, I'm engaged with Rohan's politics." She could have laughed, a small smile curving her lips as she looked to her friends. Gimli hid nothing, belly laughing at the very idea. "Seems tales of shieldmaidens have warmed Rohan. Made them feel wild again." She said, showing her teeth she grinned so widely, "They'll not shiver in their homes and stand for war again, and I've experience keeping rogues from going too feral."

"Aye but when you're commanding Lassie, who's there for you to shout at?" He teased her, tugging her into his arms, his strong arms knotting so hard around her stomach she huffed out a heavy breath, unable to catch another. "Aye I'll miss ye, but we'll not be gone long. Likely when we return Rohan'll be swimming in ale and rejoicin'!" He quaffed, patting her back hard, but she was glad for his embrace, squeezing him back hard.

"Or praising your name," Legolas interjected, smiling kindly as Gimli let her loose, clasping his hand around her arm and she did the same, limbs locked together a moment. She met his handsome, pale blue eyes and rolled her own.

"I'll settle for finding my little group their place in all this." She said, letting him go with a soft smile. She nodded to her father, her own goodbye said to him already in an embrace and a promise to protect his lands and stay. When she turned to Aragorn her words felt leaden in her throat, hardly able to swallow them down.

She reached for his wrist, dipping her hand beneath his shirtsleeve and feeling the rough token there. "I will you see you when you return." She said simply, not willing, not able to let loose the torrent of feeling she'd sewed up inside. She'd said what she could that morning, and yesterday would ever be a dream. His own fingers knotted around her wrist, the two of them, in turn, measuring the throb of their pulse. The beat promising  _live_. "Tomorrow holds more promise." She did not, or could not, say those things buried inside her heart, and he was right not to either.

She watched them go, raising her hand as they slipped away into the sun, the white wizard, the stocky dwarf, the beautiful elf and the shadowy king. She did not like to be parted from them and to watch them go stung her bruised flesh. But when Köttr, sweet Köttr, Rat the Bowman and her two brawling men stood beside her, they looked to her for orders and direction. Behind her Èomer scoured the field for survivors, salvaging and burning orc flesh. Inside the keep, Èowyn and Shaka healed the sick and helped pack cart and cot for the journey home. Surrounded by all of them, she walked back toward the fort to offer their aid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written entirely under the influence of the Shape of Water and Call Me By Your Name. Think Hazy sunlight, lingering stares, slow touches and sadness.
> 
> Wrote this near a month ago and it was all leading heeeeere I'm so happy to finally post it. So sorry to part them, but Hedda's got shit to do.
> 
> I might write an NSFW outtake of them in Helms Deep in another story, because I don't want to up the rating on this fic. Also I sincerely recommend all the music I'm using in this fic, particularly this one because MOOOOD.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Come, mothers and fathers,_
> 
> _Throughout the land_
> 
> _And don't criticize_
> 
> _What you can't understand_
> 
> _Your sons and your daughters_
> 
> _Are beyond your command._
> 
> \- The Times They Are a Changin, Bob Dylan.

 

 They had hardly left it, but Rohan would wait for no man.

Officially, to the people and the royal house of Edoras she was titled the countries steward, but without Eowyn and Eomer beside her, she was as likely to burn to the country herself as she was to lend her hand to leading it. Daily, complaints came of stolen homes, broken carts, lost family to be reunited, squalling babes with no family to find, burnt and trampled crop and murdered horses. All had to be arranged and apologised and repaid and found and figured, an exhaustive process that, it seemed, could not wait until the true king returned. She cursed herself near hourly for taking up a mantle so vital,  _and so pitifully contemptuous._ On one mission already she had lost Rat and Ansor, bidding them to man the distant farm it was said had been taken by rogue goblins, cattle and sheep slaughtered and barn overrun and she missed the lightness of them. She was glad still to have Kol, Shaka and Kottr in the centre beside her. After battle was done in the throne room her Drútdéor was always there to mock her for her new position, to offer wine to settle her to sleep. She feared without them she may think too well of herself and forget that sword and shield, not words were her lifeblood.

Èowyn toffered her as much aid, Èowyn who told children renewed, over grand stories of shieldmaidens with  _her_  name amongst the ranks of ancient warriors. Sweet Èowyn who had offered her her quarters and her bed should she need her family or a friend, who she shared her meals with in the great hall and who spoke of the ranger king too often. She loved her cos, she let herself feel that affection again, but it was ever tinged by the gulf between them. Still day by day Èowyn whispered of glory and valour in battle, and day by day Hedda held her tongue. Hedda tried to offer her some truth amidst her stories, tried to coax some of her cousin's wilder tendencies down.  _She does not want to be like you_. She told her cos of the fighting pits, the violence and unruly nature of weapons play she'd found there. But she'd not deny Èowyn what she wanted any longer. When there was time, she and Èowyn fought against the backdrop of the setting sun, swords and shields raised, clashing until they retired to the hall for dinner. Politics and practice, family and friend it seemed, were not as distant as ever she had believed.

She denied Eowyn and her Drútdéor's company at night. At night she dreamed fitful, unkind dreams, curled in a corner of the empty guest hall she would not give up. At night she dreamed of the white tree of Gondor, of the high, grand towers that touched the sky. But worse in her dreams, she saw two brothers, one facing away from her, the gold russet of his hair covering his face and deep, bloody wounds ripped through him. The other seemed a shadow of Boromir, alike in face but a stranger, mouth open calling out for Idis. As she watched immobile they were eclipsed by pure black shadow, and the shadows formed monsters. Spiders of Mirkwood, great bats, flocks of birds with wings as dark as night, whether they were from the shadow or the shadow was made of them she knew not. When the creatures and the darkness fell upon her the ground beneath her feet shook and split, torn until there were miles between them and she fell, she fell down into the depths of the dusty earth. Alone in the guest hall each night, she awoke screaming.

She knew were her company sleeping beside her she would not be wakened so. Even after Gandalf's fall, Boromir's death, the battle of Helms Deep her dreams may have frightened her, but under watchful eyes and listening ears she never made a sound. Alone, utterly alone, she could not control them. She worked and fought and drank, each night trying to sleep better but inside her she knew well enough it was not merely thoughts of her company she missed, but Aragorn. When she looked out over the golden grass of Edoras she looked for horses on the horizon and she looked for him, but just the same she knew not what she would do when he returned. She had a title aye, a grand one befitting his company, but it did not change her manner, her failures. It did not make her worthy of him.

Èowyn had arranged new clothes for her, supple, soft leathers in rich browns, red velvets in red and yellow. Not dissimilar to the ones she had arranged for Imladris, but they fitted her more comfortably now, softer against her skin. Her old leathers were well past ruined in battle, though they were in a poor enough state before it and she had conceded that they had to be left behind, loathe as she was to part with the ruined scraps. When Èowyn had them left on her pallet in the guest hall she had thanked her, and she had meant it. The leathers warm and leggings tight to her skin were neither those of a king, a princess or a soldier, made for war and words both. And stitched on her collar was something entirely new as well, a mark of her own.

It was a golden mark she knew well enough, with a mild alteration that set it apart. It had been Eomer, discomforted and unsure he had suggested her Drútdéor have some mark to paint on them, some sign of what they were and their kinship. As a captain, he had not been certain of her group until Théoden had told him of their deeds. That had been enough for him it seemed, he who had grown up on tales of Shieldmaidens and chivalry, a band of thieves and outsiders seemed almost romantic to some. His was a military mind, unknown and unmarked strangers In battle were unwise to him, and she thanked him for it. It was not an action she would have thought to take. Some days since their return Shaka and Eomer had met her in the throne room as the common folk filed out and the sun fell, painting golden light over the hall.

"We've a gift," Shaka said simply, her voice strong and kind, hefting a circular shield heavy in her hands. Hedda's smile brightened, after Helms Deep she had been using a borrowed one, not weighted well to her but good enough. To have one that felt her own would be a comfort in the coming days and she bridged the gap between them. No doubt Eomer's work was here as well, her friends likely had few coppers between them to gift her. She took it, appreciating the slimmer work of this one and the beaten iron around its rim.

When she turned it in her hands she saw the face, wood stained dark black and a symbol, not the rearing horse of Rohan she had come to expect, painted in white. Knots, strong and bold circled it, and she recognised them in a moment. It was similar to Rohan's sigil, man and woman linked together, sword and shield, but around it, circling it was c _onnection_ , the three symbols framed together as if they belonged there. It was grand, beautiful, and yet it was something she'd not seen before in any tapestry, tavern or high hall.

She was speechless, taking the heavy shield in her hands and hefting it, eyes tracing the knot like it was made of pure gold. She set it down gently threw her arms out, ensnaring the two in an embrace, hiding her face in Shaka's shoulder to hide her smile.

"I will send a copy to Rat and Ansor," She said, swallowing down the thickness in her voice. "This is an honour I had thought none of us would know." She said as she removed her hands, busying herself gathering the hewn wood once more. Her eyes went to Eomer, strong, golden Eomer and even the concern in his eyes was not enough to dampen her spirits. In the following days, the sigil appeared on every new item of clothing she had, traced in thread, shining and proud. It did not feel to her like a uniform or a brand, but it felt like family. And as Shaka, Kottr and Kol took up the same sigil she felt strong. Wild as they were, there was honour among them, there was a promise that hung between all of them.

It did not escape her notice that Eowyn wore the same sigil hidden on her inner sleeve. It was not impressively displayed, it was not obvious to any eye. It was just past midday and they had taken a spare moment for themselves, clashing in front of the golden hall, sword to sword when she saw it stitched there, as small as her thumb between greater, more common knots. She would have reproached her cousin for it, but she could not quell the pride there too, their sigil linked with those of Rohan's kings. She did not speak of it.

"Gondor's army is large enough, surely?" Èowyn asked, parrying her blade so sharply she near lost her step, not expecting it. Her cos had skill all her own, but it was honourless and the bloody work she needed to know better.

"They're worn away by many battles, and Denethor's leadership is not spoken of well. The people don't love him." She said, her teeth gritted as she spied a furrow in the dirt, a rabbit hill and loose dirt a few steps back. She snapped her blade forward, forcing the princess a pace back to avoid the blow. "It's understandable, he's a cruel, frightened worm, undeserving of the sons he had and armies beneath him." She spoke quickly, trying to keep Èowyn distracted and it showed, her blows not quick enough yet.

"And lord Aragorn, when he takes Gondor again?" She asked, and his name made her blow land badly, sword slipping from the rim of Èowyn's shield. Each day they met Eowyn spoke of him, of his bravery, his looks, his station, his connection to Hedda.  _Does she know?_

"When Aragorn takes the throne -" She said at last, swinging hard, pushing her back another step. "Use your shield, it's as much a weapon as your sword! When the king returns the white tree will bloom again - he'll be the king Gondor needs," Èowyn took her words, swinging her shield wide, the rim slapping away the point of her sword. But she was faster, spinning sharply, leg coming up to knock her low hand, kicking her sword hand until it loosed, clattering to the ground, her cos shocked by the action.

"He is a good man," She said, looking to her for a long moment, the two locked still for one long second before she swung her shield suddenly, not certain of the action but fierce. It drew a shout from Hedda, half a crow of joy and surprise as she just barely bore the brunt of it on her own shield, arm shaking with the blow.

"And you care for him," Hedda said, at last, the two locked and still another moment, shocked by her question. It was one she'd known since the very day they had left this place for Helms Deep, and it had endlessly nagged in the back of her mind but she could not contain the question any longer. Èowyn's face fell, guarded and unsure. She had to end this. Èowyn was well beyond distracted, and it was a simple jab of her sword to her uncovered side that did it. She dodged, jumping back so sharply she lost her footing, boot sinking into the disturbed earth she toppled. She gasped as she fell, dust filling the air.

"You love him?" She asked, looking down on her for a moment that lasted a year to her mind. Her beautiful, gracious cos on the dry ground. She offered her hand, helping her to her feet and holding onto her hand as they stood, shoulder to shoulder.

"Do  _you_ , Cos?" Èowyn said, dipping her head to meet her eye. Her voice was quiet and kind. "He speaks highly of you. I think he cares for you very much." She was so honest, there beside her, Hedda could almost believe her. Could almost believe she would support her foolishness. She tightened her grip on Èowyn's hand, letting her shield fall from numb fingers.

"Father said you seemed happier since he had come, I would see you happy. And politically in this war and after it -" She said, ignoring her question, pulling away slowly to gather her shield. She turned her face away, swallowing down some bitter emotion rising within her.

"I am happy to see you home, Hedda. I am happy your father is not what Wormtongue made him and Edoras is changed." She said, pushing past the wall she was trying to build, not certain she could speak of her relationship to Aragorn, but not certain she had any right hide it. "He asks of you often. He would have you happy as well. In Helms Deep -"

She shook her head, letting her go quickly and stooping to gather her shield. "This is foolishness Èowyn. It matters not, his duty and mine must come first. Gondor needs their king, they do not need me."

She walked away too fast, heading back into the hall and leaving her cousin standing in the sun. Behind her, she did not see the horses coming. " _Cousin_!" Èowyn called, shielding her eyes from the high sun as she saw the shadows over the golden plains. When she turned, she saw them. Far in the distance, her fellowship returned. Still Eowyn spoke, her voice kind as if she were some breakable thing. "Rohan needs you dearly enough, Hedda, why not Gondor? Why not Aragorn?" She asked, the fair woman looking at her taller cousin as if her words would ever be possible. At last, when she spoke her own voice was quiet, eyes fixed on that far shadow.

"I failed Gondor once. I have failed Rohan a dozen times. I would not fail him as well."

When she met them at the inner gate her body felt sick with nerves and excitement, Eowyn already seeing to the cooks and the guests to prepare a feast for their arrival. She counted their heads one by one, the golden hair of her father, the silver and red of Gimli and Legolas. The assorted horse lords and pale white of Gandalf greeted her kindly, calling out her name. But eyes flickered over them until they fell on dark waves and green eyes. His eyes were upon her, tracing her as a smile parted both their lips. She was loathe to break it as they began to dismount but did, digging her nails hard into the meat of her palm.

She went to Gimli and Legolas where they shared their steed, offering her hand to the hapless dwarf to help him down. Her hand was forgotten when she saw his were not the only short legs within their company, two grinning, round faces looking down on her from her father and Gandalf's horses.

"Pippin! Merry!" She gasped, shocked to see them once more. In all the madness, in the war and words that had led them across Edoras she'd not forgotten them, but she had feared for them. The small hobbits caught up in a war of this land, even as Gandalf told her time and time again they were safe in Fanghorn, she had not been able to believe it. They propelled themselves dangerously from the horses, stumbling in the dusty earth but she cared not, falling her knees and crowing as she threw her arms around them.

"The luck of hobbits that you're found again!" She said, her eyes alighting with surprise.

"No bother, Miss! We were safe as Baggins's, and just as well fed!" Merry grinned boyishly as she righted herself. She laughed as she turned, offering her hand once again to Gimli who was laughing grandly, near falling from the beast below him as she helped him. Legolas bounded down beside him. 

"Rascals were feasting while we fought it seems," The redhead scolded them, but he ruffled their golden red heads none the less. 

"And we even come with spoils of war," Pippin cut in, reaching into one steeds saddle bag to draw out a fat pouch that only seemed to delight him more. He offered it to her with a flair and a bow and she took it, affecting her own. It felt good to be among them, a childlike, free joy, and when she opened the pouch she laughed. The packet was stuffed to the brim with fresh pipeweed and she laughed, hand covering her smile as she brought it to her nose to smell the sweet scent of it.

"Then you will be gladdened to know there is a feast prepared," She said, a smaller smile on her lips. She was eager to know of Isengard, of the Hobbits travels, but likely they were tired and hungry, and she would have them think of only happiness today. Happiness, and one more stolen celebration. One more night of peace amidst this war. "You shall have all the food and dancing and drink your hobbit hearts can take. What did you say once, Gimli, 'None of you will leave the weight you walked in?'"

There was a gleeful roar among all of them as their steeds were handed off to a stable boy one by one and it lifted her heart. She pointed each of them to warm beds and clean rooms quickly, seeing the dust and sweat of the road painting them and they gladly headed for the high hall. It did not escape her notice that at the last of the line, Breggo's reins in hand was Aragorn. He waved off the stable boy, and she walked beside him to settle the steed into his bay. She brushed the sweat from the horse's brow and gathered a gentle brush to soothe his mane as Aragorn untacked his saddle and heaved it over the bay wall. There was a comforting quiet between them, but her body felt him there, feet away and warm. She could feel him there, bright and home and  _alive_.

"You look well," he said at last, leaning against the wall, the sound of hooves and rustling hay all around them. He looked upon her freely, eyes tracing the knots at her throat and sleeves and she let her own eyes wander. He was dusty and tired from the road, but long miles neither wearied nor weakened him. His skin was sun-drenched and golden brown, eyes ever quick and kind. She feared she may be foolish, busying her hands as she mindlessly braided a few strands of Brego's mane. "I did not see it before but this land, this hall, it suits you." She swallowed, feeling him inch closer. As she knotted the simple braid in the horse's mane she turned to look at him, red hair rustling in the quiet surrounding them. "You seem gladder here than I have known you,"

"Gladder than I thought I would find these halls again." When she spoke again the words felt so weak she could have choked on them, fisting her hands sharply to press them from her lips.  _Would it be so wrong_ , she wondered,  _to steal another night away with him?_  When she spoke she felt naked and vulnerable and it terrified her. "Happier still to see you returned."


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _There's a fight to be won_
> 
> _For the love you find at home._
> 
> _Work to be done_
> 
> _Before you rest your weary bones._
> 
> _I'm finding peace don't come_
> 
> _To everyone I know,_
> 
> _So I will love in this life_
> 
> _Until I finally have to go._
> 
> \- Growing Up Child, Run River North

 

Théoden stood at the front of their hall, a grand king, renewed by victory and strong. His fellowship sat at the front of the address, a place of high honour he knew, and yet he felt discomforted before the stage, and the eyes of many sat uncomfortably on his shoulders. On a raised platform his eyes were not on the king or the prince and commander, but on her, strange renewed more dramatically than even Théoden. When she had met them at the gate he had been taken aback by the change those days apart had seemed to have had upon her, her soft, red-gold hair still wild but shining, gentle curls framing her pretty, freckled face and a smile wider and more open than he ever could have imagined on her face.

Théoden's cup was full, golden goblet raised before the throne in with some ceremony, and it was clear that the darkness of the war was beaten away for another night here beneath the timbers. "Tonight we remember those who gave their blood to defend this country." He called, those that surrounded them raised tankards of ale. "Hail the victorious dead!"

"Hail!" The crowd chorused, drinking deep. Before him Hedda seemed to hesitate, tankard hefted but face still, impassive until her eyes met his. He looked to her, the indecision on his face mirrored in hers and he thought in his heart of her demand in the caves of Helms Deep, her demand that he simply live. She was not one to celebrate heroic sacrifice and valour. He looked to the band on his wrist, protection ringed above all before he turned his eye back to her as she took a slow sip of her ale, not joining in the call.

"And -" Théoden followed his words, drawing a small murmur of confusion about the hall, breaking the unspoken ceremony between them all. "Hail the living who still walk beside us!" He called. Her head snapped up when the hall hailed once more, the call loud and true, a kinder, warmer call free of the loss of life the first was threaded with. He shouted his own salute, drinking deep from his tankard.

As the crowd dispersed, the noise crowing and ale flowing free she stepped down and he wanted to go to her, but there were words to be said, and he knew he would see her later in the night. He thought perhaps the two of them had earned some celebration, but propriety was a fresh concern he must think of. With the honour, she had achieved here came eyes and attention he would not mar for her.

He shared words with his friends, but quickly he saw competition brewing between the dwarf and elf, words of drink and contest and when Èomer joined them, thrilling at the idea he excused himself. He sipped from his tankard slowly, leaning his back against one of the tall pillars in the room, eyes tracing every merry member of the hall, finding his friends as they claimed an empty table and, at last, Hedda and her friends hidden away in a corner. There was the knife girl, Kottr, strange, honour bound protector she was, a head shorter than anyone else beside her but deadly. Away on the journey to Isengard Legolas had spoken of her, citing her as a ghost with claws and the fodder of dark fairytales, and he was right.

The foreign Shaka, tall and beautiful as she was wore what was likely one of Èowyn's dresses, the woven, deep red fabric rich in the gold light. Her hair was up, complex braids tight to her head and piled atop it, making her look a queen the like of which no Eorling had ever seen. The rest of their party had spoken quickly of her work in the healing houses, their wives and mothers and sisters speaking of her sweetness and love that had brokered the fearful tension within the glittering caves. He had been quiet, but he had thought of Tanner, the strange, bald man that had taken the brunt of an axe to save Hedda from it. He did not know what power the woman possessed to draw in such strange, storied people, but he knew their loyalty, he knew the Drútdéor was the stuff of legend.

He was shaken from his thoughts by Èowyn, the golden goblet clasped in her hands and a kind and knowing smile on her lips. "Westu, Aragorn, hál," she said in her musical lilt, offering his the cup. He put his hands over hers and lifted it to his lips, drinking the sweet wine but awaiting her words, knowing he could not avoid them forever. "Do you not celebrate, my lord Aragorn? I had not thought to find you alone when you have so many friends around you," She asked, innocence playing on her lips. He knew perhaps in another world he might have loved Èowyn, and he admired her greatly, her bravery and wit, her kindness and loveliness, but both knew he had given his heart away before he had set eyes upon her. He had seen it in him on the road to Helms Deep when his eyes searched the line and her own found the token at his wrist.

"There will be music later in the night, you'd be remiss not to dance when Eorling music favours love among its subjects," She teased him, making a smile part his lips and his head fell back against the pillar.

"Èowyn…" he began, turning his eye to Hedda again, red hair shining and this new, strange uniform - so very different to anything a warrior or maiden wore, and a part of him, unlordly and younger than he often felt, traced her figure in the garb. "In war is there any time for love?"

"Of course, it is the time when we need it most," she seemed stricken by his foolishness and he knew she was right. He knew that had Hedda offered his the words so desired to hear he would not have thought so. He had stolen a kiss and a night but she would not give him the truth he longed to hear from her. She was practical and fierce, and the danger between them was not the way to begin what he would have with her. But daily he wondered that, if one of them were to fall, he would regret speaking those words more than he did keeping them hidden.

Èowyn bowed her head gently, laying her hand warmly on his forearm in an act of kindness as she left him to his thoughts. His mind churned, and he swallowed his ale quickly to bar them from his head. He slipped back into the fold of guests, speaking kind words, congratulations and sorrows as he went to those he knew. He made his way toward Legolas and Gimli, tankards deep the dwarf was swaying while unsurprisingly Legolas may well have been drinking water for all it affected him.

He had to make some effort not to look for her again, but strains of her voice, flickers of red hair and her glorious scarlet uniform ringed the edge of his vision, dancing about the room between soldiers lords and strangers. When Gandalf stood beside him he turned his eye to find the hobbits, dancing on the tables without care, as if they had not centred a war mere days ago.

"No word of Frodo?" He asked, speaking quietly, keeping the secret of their quest as well he should. He heard the gentle stir of a sigh beside him and Gandalf's uncertainty hung heavily between them.

"No word. Nothing," the white wizard frowned, a sadness carved into his eyes, young and ancient all at the same time. He laid a hand on the wizard's shoulder, as if there were any comfort he could offer such a powerful man.

"We have time. Every day Frodo moves closer to Mordor." Before them he kept his eye on the hobbits, thinking of the two that should be beside them atop the table as they rained ale down on their audience. Frodo and Sam were not so bold and brash, but he had never seen them in celebration.

"Do we know that?" Gandalf asked turning those valiant blue eyes toward I'm and he felt small, unsure beneath his gaze. When Aragorn replied his voice was one of false confidence and hope - above all hope. It was all too many of them relied on now, all the world weighted on the shoulders of a lost pair of hobbits in the wild.

"What does your heart tell you?"

"That Frodo is alive. Yes. Yes, that he is alive." The wizard nodded, a small smile lifting his lips as they looked towards the hobbits, singing some ditty about dragons and ale, laughter and music and applause all around them. "And that there is are brighter days beyond this darkness." He said, that rumbling voice quirking to a small smile as he turned his eyes pointedly back to the hobbits. They each let out a soft laugh, seeing Hedda had joined them on the table top, hair flying and grin so wide he could not think to darken it with fear.

The music had swelled, earthy, deep music that made the hearts of men pound, in Westron and Rohirric songs began to stream throughout the hall and he nodded his goodbye to Gandalf, ignoring his knowing grin. All around them friends and lovers had begun to couple, dancing to swinging, merry tunes and he edged around the floor toward her, slipping between the laughing crowd to offer his hand to help her from the table as the hobbits leapt from them with abandon. She took it, her hand warm on his own as she swung down beside him, her eyes glittering and he had no wish to look from her again, no wish to think dark thoughts.

"Now these are the halls of Rohan I remember," Aragorn said, eyes turned down to their hands, still joined as the crowd around them began to slip away to their own revelries.

"Drowning in ale and disrupted by its shameless steward?" She asked, a grin quirking her lips as she traced her thumb across his knuckles. When he looked down at her her cheeks were flushed, dark freckles like stars over her nose and cheeks.

"Different - and  _happy_. Your doing, I think,  _Thandris_ ," He said, speaking lowly, his head bowed between them and she smiled, shaking her head at his words.

"I'm no Shield Queen - I've no great name or duty," She replied, and he knew not what her tone betrayed; if this was a sad thought to her or not. Her eyes flickered to the sides of him and she turned, pulling him out of the warmth of the hall and into the darker hallways of her home. Low golden torches flickered, but shadows were long and the halls empty, muted music matching their steps. He disagreed with her words but she seemed to have resigned herself to be a wanderer, but whether it was because she wanted it, or feared an alternative he did not know.

"Théoden would give you rule of Rohan if you'd take it." He murmured. This he knew well enough - Théoden had spoken of guiding her toward greater seats in Rohan than stewards. He'd not force her to another role she would not have, but her skill was too plain to ignore after the small army she had stirred and the way Eorlings thought of her for it. But he knew Théoden wondered about the future of his house, his land, his family and the world, intertwined as they were. Aragorn knew he wondered what was between him and his wild daughter, and Aragorn knew he thought of a future between Gondor and Rohan, the blood of Isildur and his daughter matched.

"I've not the blood or breeding to sit a throne. Nor the head to hold one. This is enough." She brushed off his words, slipping through the great doors of the hall and out into the silver night. He wanted to argue with her, but he was as loathe to press her into a crown if she did not want one, he knew well enough that feeling. "I've had two more recruits pledge themselves to my rank in a haze of ale this night. They do so because they know I will not make them bow to me."

"And what if they wanted to?" He wondered aloud, thinking of the golden hall and the white city and the people that should, by rights if not by blood, love her. She did not answer his question, looking away and over the silver, shadowy fields before them. When he thought of the future, uncertain as it was, he wondered if she would disdain him for sitting a throne the way she did the steward of Gondor.

"The Drútdéor will not last beyond war. When there is peace they'll break, and find their places again." She said, one brow raised to deflect his attention. Alone in the night air without a word, as if it were not even her doing she ran her fingers over his again, her touch more intoxicating than the all the ale in the hall.  _Where will your place be?_  He wanted to ask.  _Will it be with me?_  "And when war is done you will have your place in Gondor." She looked at him through the darkness and he swallowed. He should have known in all these days and in all, she had shared with him that she would not allow him to hide his own.

"Because of prophecy and blood," He said, his face hardening with some scorn, thinking bitterly of treacherous blood that ran through him. "I was free of this once before I had this name and this burden." He looked down at their folded hands, to that strange ring on his first finger that gleamed, seeming alive in the half-light that had marked him since he was twenty-one. She squeezed their knotted hands, and he thought she must be surprised to know this. In her imagining, the lord of all men would not be born as anything but, but from the corner of his eye she was following his words with care, not offering him empty platitudes. "What place is there for a line of dead kings that failed them once before?" She gripped their joined hands, pulling him to a stop and stepping off the path into the long, dry grass, the hall and gold light spilling from it not far behind them.

"Blood  _alone_  will not lead, Aragorn. Gondor is sick enough with names and blood without deed and action, the steward is proof enough of that." She said, lips turning down to cover her sour, hateful expression but he saw it and he wondered what hate was between them, what scars she carried in her heart because of the lord. "You are not so. In the end, after everything, Boromir would have followed you - as he should. Gimli, Legolas, Théoden, Èowyn, your elven friends follow you now. Even my Drútdéor would follow you and your rule, I think. So do I." She said, her voice gentle, discomforted by this truth. His eyes could do nought but watch her, not believing it, not believing she should follow anyone. They were still, standing close and from the path, hands twining around one another.

"And if  _I_ fail?" He asked, his voice wracked with this history she'd never know, but one he would share with her, faulty and draught as it was. He had tried not to mar the evening with darkness, but that fear inside him spilt out without his command. Before her, he felt weak and he was shamed for it, but he would share all that he was with her, no matter the cost. 

"If you fail your blood will not fix your missteps, Aragorn, nor those of the past. But  _you_  will mend those failures." She moved slowly, her fingertips grazed his jaw slowly to draw his eye back to hers but they slid shut, his breath hitching at her touch. "I've never met a faultless man, there is no such thing I think. But me and mine would trust a healer better than a man that is never hurt."

His eyes opened, enchanted by the shadows playing on her face as she spoke and the sincerity, the promise in her words.

"I do not trust you because you are a king, Aragorn, I trust you because you are a good man. I will follow you always because of it."

 _Always_ , she said. It was not a promise or the words he would beg her to speak, but it was enough of a _tomorrow_ than any he could hope for and he clung to it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am profoundly unhappy with this chapter. I've written and rewritten it from her POV, from his, from strangers it just wouldn't work, but I needed to get this one out because in the next plot actually shows up (wow that thing again) and I have those chapters written and waiting for me to get this one done.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I don't know how to be_
> 
> _What I wanted to be when I was five_
> 
> _Sometimes blue eyes, sometimes green..._
> 
> _….If I've been in love before, and I'm pretty sure I have_
> 
> _Then I'm pretty sure my house could burn down_
> 
> _Down to the ground tomorrow…_
> 
> \- Vacation, Florist

 

With the feast done, the fellowship abed within the guest hall and light burning low, she slept, content and quiet for the first time since they had left for Isengard. And yet, though she was still and silent in her sleep, she saw the brothers of Gondor in her dreams as she had when she was alone. Boromir was still turned away, only the line of his shoulders and his armour betraying his identity, but Faramir's eyes were wide, empty and pale and his mouth was open, speaking words she could not hear. Her fists clenched, twisting in her blankets but she did not make a sound, the dream capturing her attention in a yawning, silent image and she could not move or speak inside it to understand.

At last a sound awoke her, eyes snapping open and a soft gasp leaving her lips. She heard whispers and steps on the polished floor, hobbits shifting past her until her drowsy eyes focused enough to watch them and she was glad to be woken from the desolate dream.

"I just want to look at it! Just one more time." Pippin whispered, crouched beside the old wizard, his back turned to her. She slowly sat up, her mouth opening to speak, to ask what he was doing and why Merry sounded so very, very afraid. Her eyes flickered to the empty pallets in the room, seeing no eleven blonde hair or that of her ranger king.

"Pippin -" She whispered, moving slowly closer on her palms and knees, discomforted, still half hazy with sleep. Merry was the wiser of the hobbits, and his worry set her nerves on edge in the hazy quiet of their shared quarters. "What -" She began, but Merry was agitated, his hands shaking slightly as his hands went to his cousins collar, trying to pull him away from a puddle of rough cloth and a heavy weight. But too late he uncovered it. Within there was a stone, black and pure crustal, shining and beautiful. She knew not what this precious thing was, but Pippin's fingertips traced it like it was a jewel, like it was a dream to see it, when she looked on his face she did not think he heard her or his cousin's words at all, palms inching forward to touch its surface.

The stone seemed to turn to very flame beneath his hands, a devilish slit forming an eye she had seen only in dark dreams and horrible tales and a scream tore through her without thought. She reached for his arm, trying to pull him away but it was as if the stone were clinging into his flesh. He screamed, back arching as the eye stared into him but she could hardly hear over the roar of her own heart in her ears. She was foolish, reaching out her hand, fingertips spreading over her smaller one to wrench them away, the very fire he held between his hands at her own fingertips. Behind her eyes the world was blinding, brilliant light and flame, searing her eyelids.

The burning eye grazed the tips of her fingers, but a mere brush of her skin set it through her veins, her back snapped so sharply she thought she could have broken it. The muscles in her arms seized and she did not hear it, but her breath stalled a sharp, wordless hiss. In a second of contact she could see half a world away and nothing of the room she sat in.

But the eye did not cling to her as Pippin writhed, screaming and cursing, the door to their chambers slamming open around them. As Pippin screamed she was still as stone, her eyes wide and unblinking. Images, that which had not yet come to be were burned into her, but she knew they would come. Yet for all she had seen she was blinded. She could not see the room before her, only what she had seen in the depths of that stone.

She could hear them around her, though their every word seemed overloud and too slow. She heard the door quake and slam, heard Aragorn shout and scream but she could not move, her empty hands falling, blistered and red to her knees. She heard them shout, she heard Pippin whimper as the orb was covered and at last, they seemed to calm, but it seemed to her to take a half a hundred years for them to do it. They spoke of a burning tree, not the future she had glimpsed in the stone but not so different. They spoke of the eye of Sauron and Frodo, but on her knees, body rigid she could help none of them.

 

_It was a blur of memory, white walls, grand and high and above all beautiful, and yet they seemed, to her eye, shadowed and dulled with age. She was a child then, barely twelve and yet a year gone from home, and rightly so the halls of great men rose too tall around her. She was rarely alone, with the steward and his sons or Gondiorian and Rohirric ladies maids or standing in the court among the older and the wiser._

_Boromir was a man grown, an able soldier and the pride of his father. He was not the monster she had imagined him when their connection was demanded. He was kind, not yet worn down by war but only weighted by his father's expectations, even a child could see that in the set of him. He came across her as dawn broke, slipped from her chamber before her maids could wake her and wandering, blissfully alone, ducking out of sight of guards and servants as they set to their work. Warriors oft rose with the sun, she knew that well enough from home, and here was no different. And stars, she wanted to be a warrior, she wanted to be like them._

_"You should not wander alone, Idis," he reprimanded her gently, not impressed with her hiding spot behind an old stone bench. She had slipped into an alcove at the heavy set of his boots but clearly did not have enough skill to remain unseen. She chewed her lip gently and stepped out beside him. Windows ringed the entire eastern wall of the walkway, looking out over the city below, and there she could see the gentle gold of the sunrise on the horizon._

_"I only sought to see the guards training," She hummed, falling into step beside him, worrying her hands behind her back slowly, wondering if he meant to send her back into the care of courtly women she could find no comfort in. She gently skirted around the truth of it, that she had done this every morning for weeks. "There's no harm in it,"_

_"There is harm in stealing swords too heavy for you," He spoke pointedly, looking down on her from his greater height and she looked away, twisting her hands. So she had been tattled on, she thought bitterly, the guard that had caught her weighing the armoury in her small hands had told his commander of it. "My father would not like you endangering yourself so,"_

_"Were there lighter swords I would take them," she mumbled, though she knew she should not speak so candidly to him. She may consider him kind, but the demand of duty between them was not to be taken so lightly. She remembered her father's words to her, that she must be gracious and good, she must be dutiful and dear - too much relied on their betrothal to break it with her own faulted thoughts. As Boromir fought for his father's affection, so must she._

_When she looked up Boromir's face betrayed something she did not know, some uncertainty. She fixed her eyes ahead, fearing she had stepped too far from her place. Aimlessly they walked the halls, her hands hidden behind her back and spine straight. She heard a gentle sigh beside her that set her nerves on edge and the hiss of metal that startled her. From his belt he slipped a knife, short and deadly sharp, copper wire encircling its hilt in the place of leather that was more often used. She knew it was significant, his father had spoken of it and its twin, and Boromir wore both at his waist even when he was unarmored. He held it out, the blade balanced in his palm and the pommel offered to her._

_"It's no sword, Idis, but it can be just as dangerous. If you are so eager to learn I will teach you to use it."_

 

Her vision had come to her slowly, but for hours as the sun rose the world before her was black and white, drained of all colour and life, an outline of those she knew. Before her, in the hall, they were mere shadows, already ghosts. Her eyes stayed down, brow furrowed and on her folded hands. She knew her fingertips were red, shiny and blistered but they were hidden away behind a set of clean linen bandages. None had seen her touch the orb, none had known she had felt that fire within her, and she was glad, not certain she could speak of it. Those before her seemed a sketch in ash and charcoal, lifeless and slow. Lost to her already.

Gandalf spoke, his sonorous voice as kind as he could be in such a situation, gathered alongside her fellowship and family. "There was no lie in Pippin's eyes. A fool… but an honest fool he remains. He told Sauron nothing of Frodo and the Ring." She was quiet, information sluggishly trying to connect in her mind.  _What was the orb? How did it show such a future?_  Perched on one of the long tables in the great hall, the merry making of last night still about them in some unmoved kegs but their world was very much changed.  _Can that tomorrow be changed, or is it already written in the stars?_  "Sauron moves to strike the city of Minas Tirith. His defeat at Helm's Deep showed our enemy one thing: he knows the heir of Elendil has come forth. Men are not as weak as he supposed; there is courage still, wildness and strength enough perhaps to challenge him. Sauron fears this. He will not risk the peoples of Middle-Earth uniting under one banner."

She tugged her sleeves down to cover her palms, feeling cold, her back bowed in some effort to warm herself against the threat of him. "He will raze Minas Tirith to the ground before he sees a King return to the throne of men. If the Beacons of Gondor are lit, Rohan must be ready for war."

Théoden shook his head, his strong arms folded and at last her eyes went to him, his mouth turned down but his face was blurred and looked colder than it had even when she had seen him under Saruman's spell. "We cannot ride to Gondor, as they cannot ride to us. I would not lift a finger to save the stewards head." He spat, affected by history and not wisdom. Gondor and Rohan had not been friends in many years, but such hate was foolish and fiery.

"I will go." Aragorn stepped forward.  _Does he truly wish to take his throne? Does he fear it still?_ She wondered, her mind heavy, thrumming with thought and strategy, his words from last night on the silver moonlight playing through her mind like a dream. "They  _must_  be warned!" He demanded, ever true and good.  _He'd not let even Denethor suffer_.  _But he does not know him._

"And they will be," Hedda said, at last, she straightened her back and she stood, her face looking wrecked and sick, her fists clenched tight. "Rohan and Gondor, above anything must be united again. The men of Middle Earth - as one - stand a chance. This must be our priority above all others."

"And nothing will unite them, daughter, those ties have been broken years past, Denethor will accept no truce or treaty."

"Because I broke them. You and I know there is one truce he may accept." She said, her voice unaccountably clear, emotionless and empty but her eyes stayed forward.

" _No_!" Aragorn thundered, storming toward her, his grey eyes surely glittering as he stood in her path. He knew her plan. She'd known this path may someday be necessary, it was why she had feared what grew between them so. It's t _he only path I've ever truly had._ He knew the duty she'd run from thirteen years passed, he knew the duty that followed her know. His hands rose and fell, as if he meant to touch her, but knew better in the presence of so many.

"Daughter, it is too late for that. You know not the  _divide_  between our people - " Théoden spoke, his deep voice as kind as he could make it, cutting through the tension between the ranger king and the rogue princess.

"He'll not accept Hedda or a steward or a warrior, Father, I know that well enough. But a princess is still prize enough. One he will be wise enough to take if there is enough bowing and scraping to his vanity." She swallowed, straightening her back, face that impenetrable mask she'd worn so far away in Imladris. After it all, Rohan's sigil and her own on her armour and sword by her side, she had to leave it behind. It was only politics and blood she could offer them.

"Gondor is not your duty! If you think I will hand away my daughter to Gondor once more you are mistaken!" Théoden said, standing so quickly his chair slammed onto the floor, his hands splayed on the table before him.

"I will not be  _handed_ , father, not again. This is a choice I make myself. The steward's second son Faramir is unwed. This agreement is wise, and it is the only way to undo the harm I have caused."

"Faramir," he laughed, shaking his head at the mere mention of Boromir's younger brother, the boy she'd not much known, a clear and obvious second favourite. "Likely as fool as Boromir himself,"

"Boromir was a good man!" She snarled, stepping forward with fire in her eyes bright as he had come to know. "Boromir was my friend and he fell to save our friends, to save us!"

"Some overgrown oaf!" Théoden shouted in return, the tensions between them and Aragorn stepped to Hedda's side, one of her hands coming out to curl around her bicep, just below the silver cuff she'd taken from the horn of Gondor. "If he was as good a man you say then why would you flee all Gondor to escape him!"

"I did not flee Boromir, Father! I fled this life and this name! Here I stand in this hall again, a new name, aye, a new sword aye, but  _this_  remains my part in all this!" She shouted, her breath heaving fast and fists clenched. "There may be a gulf between our lands, but there are good men still in Gondor. This will do more good than any I could do in battle and you will not stop me doing my duty!"

Legolas spoke, placing himself in her path, his light eyes upon her. "You said yourself the danger you face in Gondor, Hedda, this will not be wise should he discover your heritage." He was calm, trying to temper the rage permeating the room. She shook her head softly. It was true of course, Denethor's rage may not even be quelled by a princess, a commoner may make him mad with it.

"He may well discover the truth in time - but a month, a year is all we need. Long enough to light the beacons, long enough to align against Sauron. Time enough for Frodo to destroy the ring. After that our ties with the steward matter not." She swallowed the words, speaking to the floor but she could not stop her eyes straying, flicking over Aragorn, stepped away from her and framed in the window as he was, arms folded and his own eyes down.

"He will move quickly, binding Rohan and Gondor permanently before he accepts any alliance. You would be bound to Faramir forever to secure this pact. It is foolish to do it knowing this," Aragorn said, the veneer of calm shading his voice but his tone shook slightly, as if he would shout, war with her decision. "You  _cannot_  do this!" He said, voice raising so sharply she flinched.

She wound one arm around her waist loosely, looking ahead, beyond them all to the grand tapestries beyond the throne. She knew it was there, but through the fog in her eyes she could hardly see it where she knew it was woven in gold and shining. She affixed her eye to the delicate patterns that had lost all clarity and beauty. She looked for woman, for strength, for protection but she couldn't see it.

"I can, Aragorn, and I will. It's the most I can offer." She could have torn her heart out for him, and it would have hurt her less to do it. But she dug her nails hard into her palms and turned her gaze to Gandalf

"Give me an hour, I must see Èowyn for a dress before we leave,"

 

_She was shaking, her hands fisted and bloody, nails cutting sharply into her palms and breath hitching. Denethor, his dark hair shining and a frown cutting through his regal face. His study was cold and empty but for he, her and Boromir. He was hardly hurt, but when first red had spilt from him she had feared the worst, feared her hands and the blade held between them. It had panicked her to see it, in months of practice she had not spilt his blood, only her own as callouses grew on her palms and she grew stronger and sharper._

_"My lord Denethor I did not mean -" She began, her voice meek and gentle, trying to calm the steward's anger at the slight he saw between his son and her. All would have been well, she thought, if she had not screamed to see that blood spill. Hidden away in an empty armoury her shout had called a guard running, and the guard had gone running to Denethor just as quickly to tell what he had seen. She could imagine rumour would spread that Rohan's daughter had tried to cut the throat of her own intended, she could imagine the shock that she had dared heft a blade at all._

_"Is this what Rohan truly sends? A common ring fighter to shame my son? Is your land so_ savage  _and_  wild _?" The old man spat, his anger making her flinch, clasping her hands together to stop them shaking._

_"Father this is madness," Boromir snapped in return, his anger apparent in his every note as he stepped into place beside her, his hand fell on her shoulder to give some comfort but she slipped away from his touch, swallowing down the lump in her throat. "It was a harmless lesson, I have had worse cuts from Faramir and fledgeling soldiers,"_

_"I did not accept a daughter of Rohan into the hall of Minis Tirith to scar her betrothed, nor to degrade him before his lessers and I will not have it!" He spat, saliva shining wetly at his lower lips and she looked up, eyes flicking quickly to see the cut that had enraged him so. In her imaginings it was a ghastly thing, dripping and rent deep into his veins. When she saw it it was hardly as long as her thumb already clean and bandaged, just a red stain at his shoulder and wrists. Her actions had been too quick, overzealous and overconfident as he taught her to escape from a larger opponent's grip; but to see it in the light she knew she had not hurt him greatly. She was glad to know it, the tension in her shoulders abating somewhat._

_"These 'lessons' will cease, Boromir, for the sake of safety and sense." The man said, his voice gentler, anger seemingly spent. He stood, walking the few steps toward her and she felt Boromir tense beside her. "Child, you are young, and I will forgive this foolishness." He said, laying his own bony hand on her other shoulder, leaning down to look at her face. "But know the yard is not your place, and a blade does not belong in a lady's hands." He spoke as if imparting some fresh wisdom as if she had not heard such before. Did he expect her to thank him?_

_"Yes my Lord Denethor," she muttered, turning her eyes to the floor again until he stepped away, going back to his grand seat at the head of his desk._

_Her eyes went to the nick at Boromir's throat, blood staining his tunic but it was hardly more serious than that sustained from a thorny garden or shattered glass._

_It hardly looked likely to scar._

 

Her uniform was gone, folded away with Eowyn's things. Her pipe, her boots, her cloak and gauntlets of Lothlorien were all hidden away now, and with it her name. In its place a pretty riding dress. White sleeves billowed to her knees, the skirts sensible but, importantly, the kept her muscled body and her scarred skin covered. In the place of her sword and shield, her pack was filled with dresses and jewellery, Boromir's dagger and the circlet from his horn wrapped in cloth and clean, as if they had never seen battle. This was a better costume than the one she had worn to Rivendell, and it felt somehow heavier than it had even then. She went early to the stable, the world still painted shades of peculiar grey it seemed far distant. She had made her goodbyes quickly, embraces from her family and fellowship made it hard to stop herself from running again, and she had no wish to prolong them.  _Easier if I simply slipped away. Easier if I was never here._

Her family still tried to stop her, and she was struck by the world of difference there was since the first time she had bid them goodbye on her passage to Gondor. Eleven years old she had scowled and hated them and cried and loved them, surrounded by her serving maids. Now she tried to be as stone while they asked her to stay. Aragorn had not bid her goodbye, and in some way she was glad. To speak the words between them she would crumble, to do it before her friends and family so would all her resolve. But when she went to her horse he was already within her bay, his hands clenched into fists beside him and her horse saddled. She did not speak, setting her pack against the outer wall. "Aragorn -"

"Do not do this," He spoke, his voice a quiet plea and an order and he sounded broken by it. His hands moved to cup her chin, warm, rough skin against her own that her breath hitched. He tried to still her, trying to hold her in the empty stable and she kept her eyes down. To see his face so sad and yet still so blurred with whatever had damaged her eyes made her stomach twist and clench. She did not wish to see him so, she did not wish to make him feel so. "There will be another way -"

"There is no other way, Aragorn. I broke the peace with Gondor. It is my doing that our lands are divided."

"We do not need the steward," His spat, but his anger was slipping alongside his wits. His handsome face wrecked and her breathing felt sharper, louder to her hear and harder to find. "I will go to Gondor, Hedda, please I -"

"You should not -" She gasped, shaking her head as her eyes began to water and she looked away, trying to pull his palms from her face, unable to bear his touch as her burned fingertips numbly tried to put some space between them. With his hands on her the grey, clouded world seemed sharper, but she could cut herself on all the pain and edges between them.  _Better I never see again than see this and leave it behind._

 _"I love you!"_ He snapped, not letting her run far enough away from all of this as easily as she'd hoped to flee. She wished again she could simply slip away,  _unnamed, unnoticed, unmissed._

"And I love  _you_!" She gasped, her eyes screwed shut, not able to look at his face or his hurt as she spoke. "But I did not offer you those words because I  _cannot_  honour them!" She shouted, tearing away from him at last and taking a step away, trying to calm her breathing as her arms knotted around her waist. When she spoke streams fell from her eyes and she did not care to hide them. The stride between them felt like a world apart. "I love you but it cannot mean anything. You've duty, Aragorn, demands of your people. And now I've my own." His left hand loosely knotted around her wrist, the warmth of him still coursing through her. She brushed his sleeve up slowly to bare that braid there, knotting her own fingers around it, the coarse hair and familiar knots steadying her wracked breath. "I can give you nothing. But this,  _this_  what I can do in this war,  _this_  is what I can do in this world."

"Always you said, always you would follow me, but I do not ask for that - only for you to stay  _beside_  me," he breathed, his voice wounded and lovely and had she another name she would have kissed him. But she only had her own path, and she could not stay beside him.

There was shocked silence between them she could not bear. She brought up her hands to scrub her wet cheeks and try again to stem her wracked breathing. When last she'd gone to Gondor she'd shouted, aye, but it had not been like this. She had not had such a thing to lose. She did not answer him, she had no answer for him.

"What of all you've done  _here_? Your stewardship of Rohan, the Drútdéor? Your family and our fellowship?" He asked, his voice more measured, trying to reason with her, she could see, but it would not work. He bridged the gap between them again, his fingertips gently brushing away the water falling from her eyes. Her hands fisted in her woollen skirts to stop them from shaking.

"I'm proud of what I've done here. But the king is returned and they have a true prince and princess to lead them. Eowyn has the sword of a Shieldmaiden to lift heart and spirit in this country. My Drútdéor will not break, they've chosen Shaka to lead them without me. She has my shield and with it their loyalty." She would not readily abandon her work here, too much had changed to do it. "Our fellowship will survive, Aragorn - they have you."

In all the world, she'd found her place, found her duty again. And for it she had lost everything. What choice did she have? To keep him, to love him like this was impossible. Cast off her uniform, break her cousin's heart, keep a false name and false blood and she'd have him for a time before he needed something more. And who would she be then?

"And what will I do, without you?" He asked her as if he needed her the way she needed him. As if she knew herself what she could do without him.

She looked up, roughly drying her tears with her palms. She swallowed, her throat dry and eyes red. She was glad then, that she had said her goodbyes already. "Survive."

 

_At thirteen she was stronger and wiser in her ways. Her short blade was at home in her hand and hidden in her chambers by day. But her maid had caught her, her elder Unnr that had not left her side since birth had knocked it from her hands and whispered that she must obey her steward. She had fear in her eyes, secrets Idis had not seen. She was too bold then, shaking her head and shushing her, brushing off the older woman's fear time and time again, each day as the woman combed her hair. She had thought herself invincible, thirteen and growing pretty as if her skill with a short knife and a shield would protect her from scorn and shame. No, no she had been sure her blood would do that well enough._

'…Idis was never your name…'

'…a death sentence if they knew…'

'…shame the steward and all Edoras if you are found out…'

_The maid had meant to be kind, she mused, her eyes wide and unblinking, staring in the brass mirror at her own image. The maid had meant to save her, make her wiser than she was. Her secret had made her smug, the skill she learned each day was a balm and by it she played the princess all the better. In her knife, she had some outlet for all her uncertainty, for the loss of her home, for missing her family and her freedom. But the silver-haired woman had caught her practising sleek motions with her blade, flipping it palm over palm and stabbing at the innocent air alone in her chamber and she had known there was more danger in such foolishness than she had shared._

'…You cannot be so free with yourself…'

"You must know your place. The king raised you up from nothing for  _this_ ,"

_All that tethered her to Gondor, to Rohan, to this life and this duty was wind and lies._

_Nothing. Nothing._

_She ran, she became nothing._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is another one of those chapters, like the scene in Helms Deep and the reveal on the hill in Edoras that I've had written weeks and months before because I'm so excited about them. Please let me know what you think and also I'm sorry lol. 
> 
> Have been looking forward to flashbacks, get ready for a lot of them in the coming chapters and another Aragorn POV in about two or three chapters. x


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Keep your soul inside you  
>  Don't let them take it away  
> Keep your love beside you  
> Don't let it suffocate_
> 
>  
> 
> \- Happy Song, Amy May Ellis

 

Denethor had been a kind man once, she knew this. She could see it in the love his sons had for him, in the mourning of his wife, a weight he still carried with him. He was harsh, a stone that thought himself atop the tallest mountain. But atop that mountain, the threat of being toppled was ever behind him, a shadow and a breeze he watched for. In years past she had hated him, and still she did there was no denying it. But she knew there was kindness in him too. She had felt it, cloying and uncomfortable, in smiles, in gifts - dolls and dresses he was not to know she did not like. In the world he had created in his head, he was a benevolent king, beloved by all. In his world, she was already his daughter, a part of his family, subject to the same torment and judgment he offered to his sons. For a time she had even believed it.

The rift she had made was cause enough for even a good man to sour though. His cruelty was sent out across Gondor, she had expected it and she could stand it, her name mocked in the taverns and her country shamed. He would not be shaken from his mountain by a child, after all. She prayed to the stars and gods, to the plains an ounce of kindness may still lie within in. And if not kindness, wisdom at least. Denethor, if not a kind man, was at least a savvy one. A princess of Rohan, even shocking as her actions had been, was still a princess, still a prize. Even in all her wandering days, she knew the people of Gondor still expected the city and Rohan to be bound, they knew it was a necessary tie, even as the steward had tried to mask that. If she presented herself to the people and court with enough flair, even fanfare, his hand would be forced. Were she cast out Gondor would suffer, and Gondor would know who was at fault. For the first time in years it would not be hers, the thought near made her feel smug.

It was this certainty that kept her moving, kept her heart beating and her eyes forward. The dry land of Rohan passed her by she learned she could see the world truer again, but she did not feel it. She did not delight in the smell of earth and the sweat of her horse beneath her, she could not absorb the sun on her skin, it clung to her like grime. She could see the yellow grass beneath Maeden's hooves, but she could see no beauty in it. Gondor was four days ride, driving their mounts to near exhaustion, with but only a few hours each night to rest and eat and she was glad for the exhaustive work. Her eyes were strained on the horizon, burning, itching to leave this land behind her and just as wretched to think of the white city ahead. Without her Gandalf and Pippin would have made the journey faster, likely not have stopped at all, but carrying a bargaining chip like her in their midst, they could not ferry so fast across the plains into the world of Minis Tirith. Before she entered the white city she had to pace herself and relearn the patience and delicacy expected of her. She had to look the part.

At dawn on the fourth day, the world was gold and yellow, but she did not feel the heat of it. Her cloak knotted at her throat constricted her, felt overnight and too heavy on her shoulders and Gandalf tried to speak with her, his words shouted over the pounding of hooves. He had spoken few words to her since Edoras, he and Pippin were too often locked in words of the white city. She had offered some of her own dully, but, her back straight and face carved from stone. Pippin had tried harder still, tinged with anxiety and fear himself and she felt wretched that she had no help to offer him. He was quieter than she had ever known him.

"He may accept you as an ambassador, Hedda. He was wise once, he could yet see the need to renew kinship with Rohan without the need for this."

"You do not know him, Grey Man." She had called back, her eyes ahead as they crested a hill, the mountains and the world of men laid before them. She felt small before it, as she always had in the shadow of the white city. "You do not know how he and Gondor despise me for what I have done."  _And you do not know what I saw in the stone, you do not know the future and the truth there._ "We will be lucky if they let me past the gate."

Gandalf's blue eyes were upon her often, but she could not care enough to soothe him. She did not know how. Both he and the hobbit must be strangers to her in the city, and she told them this. There was no reasonable explanation to be a friend of the strangers, to all the world they were merely ferrying a fragile princess across the world. Once, when first she'd gone to Gondor, her brother had done that.

"We have just passed into the realm of Gondor!" Gandalf called, shaking Pippin from his sleep. Her eyes went to the hobbit, taking in his awe and knowing she had thought it beautiful, even a hateful rogue, a nameless servant, as a betrothal promise she had known the city was great. Were it not for the fog in her eyes and the hate she knew lurked within, she still would. "Minas Tirith, City of Kings!" He called. They entered the city to no fanfare of regality, but speed, hooves clattering through the streets, calling for soldiers and low born people to move from their path as they rose higher and higher inside its great walls. But on her own saddle, the flag of Rohan was unfurled, snapping behind her, the horse dancing in the wind and seen by all.

They dismounted on the top level of the city, the jutting walkway hewn in pure white and immaculately graced with green grass was one she'd played on as a child, and its grandeur made her wipe her face, brushing the dust from her hair nervously as she twisted her hair from her face in a pretty style Eowyn oft wore. The wizard and her small friend walked ahead of her, and she fumbled with her saddlebag, drawing her wrapped circlet of silver from their depths. The weight of it in her hands grounded her here, even as the fire of Mordor burned before them, but she left the knife behind, unwilling to be parted from the gift she held rightfully.

"It's the tree, Gandalf. Gandalf!" Pippin called, his eyes taken by the bare, bleached skeleton of a tree that had frightened her when she was young. Once she had not known what it was, not known its worth and asked Boromir why it was not cut down. ' _Because the white tree will bloom again',_ he had promised her. _And it will._

Gandalf was harried, harassed by the white stone and oppressive guards all around them. She was surprised they had not been met with some show of force, captured or imprisoned to go before the steward, but she supposed even here Gandalf's name carried weight.  _And_ , she supposed,  _so does my own and my flag._  "Yes, the White Tree of Gondor, the tree of the King. Lord Denethor however is  _not_  the king. He is a steward only. A caretaker of the throne."

"But he thinks himself greater than he is." Hedda muttered, half beneath her breath, but her words were a warning to her hobbit friend, her eyes meeting his clearly. She gripped her parcel tightly as the two spoke of Boromir, of Frodo and Aragorn and the secrets he must keep from the maddened steward.

As they entered the great hall she stood a step behind the white wizard, not invisible but demure, polite. Her eyes danced around it, but his court was not here, his advisers banished from the room when by rights, by all she knew they stood with him, speaking, plotting, judging. But now, now she needed an audience, now she needed eyes and ears and lips to speak of her and whisper all around the city there was  _none_. It rankled her, disturbing her plans, but no matter, she must simply make more spectacle of her return, ensure every eye on Gondor knew she was here from peasant to Lord.

"Hail, Denethor, son of Ecthelion, Lord and Steward of Gondor. I come with tidings in this dark hour… with counsel and with a friend." He said, his staff making a gentle noise with every step on the stone floor. Denethor did not look at them, crouched over in his stone chair. He looked aged far beyond his years, grey hair curling on his chest and wrinkles etched onto his face. When he looked at them at last, his eyes flickered over her, as if they did not see her at all. Between his fingers was a split horn, the bone shattered but still a pure white. One golden band remained at its tip but the larger was gone, held between her own hands. Her fingers flexed around the wrapped ring, discomforted.

"Perhaps you've come to explain this. Perhaps you've come to tell me why my son is dead." He said, his voice cold and uncaring. But when she looked at him she could see the agony etched within him, feeling she'd seen in him when she was a child in this hall. When he spoke of his lost wife when he spoke of the return of the king. She stepped forward, putting herself in the path of the wizard as he was silent and she slipped the circlet of old gold and silver from her cloth. She knelt, the floor like ice through her skirts but her head bowed at his feet, her forehead near grazing the floor. It was a piteous show, good and gracious and she would more happily break her spine than do it, but it was proper.

"His was a senseless death in this war, My lord," She said, keeping her eyes on his feet as she offered him the token. There was silence, deafening between them, and she could not yet look to his face. At last, she felt him take it, leaning from his chair to take it. When she looked up, at last, he looked at her like a stranger. "Felt by too many fathers in these dark days. My own brother is lost as well to it," She swallowed.

"Idis…" he muttered, his thumb grazing the circlet like it confounded him. "How came you by this?" He said, and she stayed kneeling before him. His eyes were weak and watery, but there was a coldness within him, an unpredictability.

"It was given to me by those that fought beside him when he fell. Carried by those that loved him. When I was told of his passing it rent my heart and I begged to be allowed to bring it to you. I return it with my own love and hope I can mend the hurt I have done to your family." It would not be wise to tell the steward she had been there as he was lost, felt him die beside her and heard his words. But a ladies grief was obvious on her face, and her voice cracked when she spoke of him.

"What hurt can  _you_  mend," he spat, his sallow cheeks turned down. His anger made her jump, ut she supposed it was to be expected. She studied his face, overfed and hollow as it was at the same time. For all his furs and gold he looked near dead already. She swallowed, seeking words enough to soothe his rage, but as ever she had little to calm him with. It was Pippin that saved her from it.

"Boromir died to save us, my kinsmen and me. He fell defending us from many foes. When I told the lady she cried near without end, my lord" He said, his voice scared but so clearly trying to be strong. She watched him as he knelt, thinking such a merry creature should never look so sad.  _He should not kneel to this worm._  "I offer you my service, such as it is, in payment of this debt." Her eyes snapped to his, knowing this action was unwise as Gandalf knocked his bare ankles with his staff, ordering him to stand. But that damage was already done, Denethor had already seen too much of the soft hobbit and he would hurt him.

"My lord, there will be a time to grieve for Boromir, but it is not now. War is coming. The enemy is on your doorstep! As Steward, you're charged with the defence of this city. Where are Gondor's armies?" He demanded, the air around them changing.  _This is not the way, Gandalf, he will not be ordered._ "You still have friends. You're not alone in this fight. Send word to Théoden of Rohan. He sends his daughter in love, in friendship and in your shared loss. Light the beacons."  _Ah_ , she thought, standing slowly from her position on the floor to stand beside her hobbit friend.  _He is still trying to make him see sense without my promise._

"You think you are wise, Mithrandir," The steward's face seemed to twist into a smile, eyes flicking between the three of them, seeing something there. "Yet for all your subtleties you have not wisdom. Do you think the eyes of the White Towers are blind? I have seen more than you know." The steward mocked him, his voice a creaking, old thing, without power or resolve, only petty pain and anger. _What have the eyes of the white tower seen? Have they seen me?_  Her heart thudded, fearing what he knew beyond measure. "With your left hand, you would use me as a shield against Mordor. And, with your right, you seek to supplant me!"

Denethor grew agitated, his hands fisted and shaking on the arms of his throne and his body seemed to contort and shake with anger. "I know who rides with Théoden of Rohan. Oh, yes. Words have reached my ears of this Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and I tell you now: I will  _not_  bow to this Ranger from the north. Last of a ragged house long bereft of Lordship! You think you can return what is mine and my houses and call it friendship!" He shouted the ring of metal clutched in his hands so tight she feared he'd snap it, ruin the talisman she'd carried all this way.

Gandalf thundered, his back straight and all the power of the gods and the world behind him. He was beautiful in his words, rage stinging through him. But it meant nothing here. The truth of Gondor meant nothing to this wounded old man. "Authority is not given to you to deny the return of the King,  _Steward_!"

"The rule of Gondor is mine! And no others!" He shouted, spittle gleaming on his lower lip as he stood from his throne. Gandalf's way would not work, that much was clear.  _So mine is the only possibility._ She went to the steward's side, her palms open to him but not touching him, not certain it would help her now as Gandalf stormed from the room. The hobbit followed quickly behind, likely to try and temper the wizards rage but she stood, she stayed, meeting the steward's eye a moment before turning them down, bowing her head once more.

"You have the rule of Gondor, Denethor. You and yours have held it and thrived," She said, speaking gently as she would to a wild mare and he turned to her, cold eyes tracing her face to search for some fresh trick as she inched closer. "I and Rohan come to you in peace and promise.  _You_ , Denethor, not some ragged king." She swallowed, her voice venomous though she hated to speak of him so, hating to think his name and his duty and his future in this very city. In the days since she had fled her home land, she had tried to force his words, his face and his ghost from her mind.

"I was wrong and young to leave you once, but I have grown wiser, and if you would have me I would remake the friendship we once shared." She ducked her head, hiding her dull eyes, fearful he may see the hate she held in her heart for him and the fear, her blood thrumming through her. When she was young he had called her daughter, doted on her, and even his kindness had sat heavy and ugly on her. He was not the man she would obey, he was not the man she would call her father. "Gandalf may not command you, My lord, but he is right, darkness does descend upon all Middle Earth. My family and yours have felt it cut through us," She murmured, chancing a step closer, her skirts rustling slightly around her ankles and she could feel Denethor's eyes on her, dark, unkind and calculating.

"I grieve for Boromir with every piece of my heart. And I grieve that my foolish caused the rift between our families that I did not intend. Every day since I learned of his passing I have only wondered if I could have saved him, that my love for him may have kept him closer. As the hobbit did, I offer you my service in effort to atone for the crime I did your house." Service, she offered, not a marriage contract, not yet when it was still so early, he may take it as a presumption, a slight that she could slip back into a promise broken thirteen years hence, but she put himself into his bidding. Made herself his servant. With his court not here for her to beg, with his advisors not in sight, she could only yet convince him until the people learned she was here.

Denethor, old, ragged man he was blinked up at her from his throne, looking at her with suspicion, calculating her every word with those dull, watery things, the horn of Gondor, the symbol she had always twinned with Boromir broken and ruined in his hands.

"Idis…" He said at last, and it was a struggle for her to form a smile on her lips, to bow her head as if she honoured this loathsome man. "My  _daughter_ ,"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A sadly Aragornless chapter after the last few, but that's to be expected.
> 
> This was another hard chapter, the idea was always that Denethor had a creepy love of her, but getting around what she'd done and his anger was all about the politics, meaning she had to make a spectacle of her return. He scuppered that a little by being alone, seeming to have banished most of his court and advisors, which I imagine he had done in canon as he is never seen around anyone of status. This obviously makes her job harder. Let me know if you think it's believable?


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _There are many roads to forgiveness_
> 
> _and I haven't found one yet._
> 
> _I dove into the Atlantic_
> 
> _and prayed that I wouldn't get wet._
> 
> Salvation - Laurena Segura.

His touch was strange, papery as if she could feel the very fragility of him as he touched her jaw, his fingers stroking her face as if he could ever be her family. The hall was cold, the flagstones hard and like ice she could feel through her skirts as she lowered her eyes, not wishing to look upon him any longer than she must. She could feel his grip tighten, gripping her jaw and forcing her eyes up. Had she not known rough actions it might have frightened her, even then it still made her teeth grit and hands fist at her sides.

"Your foolish actions… leaving in the dead of night without word, with only your maid to make your excuses," he spat, his words cold. He took it for a personal slight, as well she knew he would. But her maid, dear Unnr had made excuses for her and she thanked her for it, wherever she was now. It may be the only thing that allowed her to carve a place here once more, whatever lies she had offered him.

"Forgive me, My lord," she whispered, her own hands going to his, prising them from her skin and holding them between her own hands, asking for his kindness, bowing and scraping to this foul, false king. Even to Aragorn, she would not give him this display, he would not seek it, and he would know what a false thing it was. But not Denethor, Denethor would love her for it. "When I walked these halls once I was young, foolish and faulted. Undeserving of them and the love your family offered me." She said gently, and her stomach jolted with the very truth of it. She had been so, a pampered young thing with no fear, her own pride built on a foundation near as shaky as Denethor. She thought them alike for a moment, nought but a name and a title they did not deserve, tramping the halls they had no claim to.

"And you think yourself wiser now?" the worm spoke, his mouth turned down, his jowls carved into his face like some ancient statue. He did not believe her, she thought, or he did not trust her, though by rights he was unlikely to ever do so. But she did not need his trust, only his wits and his savvy. "For your years spent serving Theoden?"

"I do my lord. Each day that passed I have thought of this city and your family, of how I failed you, shamed you, I only wish I had been able to come sooner." She said, her voice pitiably small and eyes once more turned to the floor, unwilling to look at his face. "You've every right to send me from your sight, My Lord, but I beg that you will not. For the sake of your high city." She wanted to spit her words out, the very falsehood she spoke was bitter in her mouth but her voice was honey sweet.  _It will not be so long_ , she told herself, when the beacons are lit Aragorn will come. When the beacons are lit the white tree will bloom. When the beacons were lit she would likely be wed or promised, but her fellowship would still come.

His lips, as dry and cracked as his hands fell upon her hands, brushing over the back of her knuckles.

"I will not send you away, my daughter. You will have your place in my city," he promised her, his own voice low as he unclasped his hands from hers. Victory held no sweetness, but a smile crossed her lips. She had done her duty well enough, she was not yet cast or hung from these pale stone walls. But if it was so why did the steward's eyes seem colder than steel?

A young maid, Ior, was called to serve her and a suite was readied for her, grand rooms within the family's wing she had held once so many years ago. Quickly the quiet girl unpacked her bags, seeing, touching everything she had brought with her and even that felt an invasion as if Hedda could feel the strangers touch on her as much as she had felt Denethor's. The maid drew her wrapped knife from the bag, her dark brows furrowed at its weight and its muffled shape and Hedda snatched it from her hands, telling her it was fragile and precious and  _private_. The girl looked at her strangely, but nodded, accepting her order with a delicate dip that made her brown curls gleam in the weak sunlight spilling in.

Such forwardness, such intense service was not so in Rohan, and it was as strange now as it had been to the child she was. Such invasions she could not bat away though, and Ior unlaced her gown with deft fingers, tugging the dusty thing over her head and baring her treacherous, naked skin. It could not be hidden, even as she curled, trying to diminish the sight of her scars in the light, Ior saw, her eyes tracing the marks across her with wide eyes.

She played tired, weak and weary from the trip and seeking only solitude, but her excuses only made the girl more anxious to stay within said little as she scrubbed her skin, cleaning the dirt of the road from her back and she would not hear of a lady doing so herself, no matter how Hedda tried to ask for some peace. She stood in the bathing chamber, her body pale and cold but she felt the girl pause, her hands abruptly still as she brushed the backs of her skins with a clean rag and soft smelling soap, trying to wash away the bruised and ruined tissue. They stilled at the scars there, new and old. Servants scars. Hedda could think of nothing to say, her eyes looking ahead as if she had not noticed the girls pause. Such a small thing, and yet it told a story greater than any she had said in Gondor yet. Such a small thing, and yet it could almost undo her.

She half wished the Lord had taken her offer of servitude, giving her maids quarters and the beat of a switch on her legs again, but this was the wisest path for her. The corridors, so long gone from her mind and heart were familiar, the paths she had taken those years ago seemingly as ingrained into her mind as a sword was scored into her palm. But no matter what she wished she had been ushered here from the throne room, after some hours of questioning, and her weariness was not such a lie, the weight of Denethor's eye and touch and aspirations on her head. Where she had been, why she had left, the work she had done across Middle Earth to become wiser and how she could serve him. Her lies, careful and quick sufficed it seemed, but they were exhausting. Only when he had bid her speak of Theodred's loss she was honest and wept deeply, tears unbidden and swallowing her. It was one rare moment that her grief could help, not hinder her country and her friends. Denethor, fool he was, could not deny a weeping woman kindness.

She was given the day to recuperate from her travels, a gift she had not expected after Denethor's cold acceptance and cloying worry and his questions, but she was glad for it, even if Ior did not leave her sight. As the day began to darken she went to the wide window, one hand curled in the elegant drapes and the other fisted in the skirts of Eowyn's dress as she looked to the stormy lands of Mordor, the dark clouds and flaming light that encircled that land. As she looked, she thought of Frodo, preying as she watched that the eye would fall, that the clouds would lessen, that the walls would crumble.  _How close is he? Does the ring weigh on him as it does all others?_ She wondered, the breeze cold on her skin. She longed for a better land, greater, more beautiful and rough. _Is he still alive at all?_

So many years of her life she'd longed for Rohan and the Golden Hall, for her father and her cousin, for her people, bold and strong and so very different to this cold land. She thought of her fellowship, of her drutdeor, of  _Aragorn._ And she felt lonely. A strange feeling, one she had shaken after so long wishing for solitude, but faces, hearts, people dead and buried and still so very, helplessly alive would not leave her. Even Boromir's knife was a cut, hidden as it was beneath her plush mattress. Though it belonged in this city, it stung to know that she could not wear it when she had so rarely been parted from it.

As she stared over the land that separated Mordor from this city of men she imagined Faramir, though she rarely had before. She remembered him, young, quiet, ever disappointing to his haughty and cruel father. Was he still so? She wondered what he looked like, if he had inherited his father's unpleasantness or if he was more truly Boromir's brother that Denathors son.

For thirteen long years neither Rohan or Gondor had owned her, but shadows of both had kept cutting into her, chaining her. Shadows of those she loved held her as well. Only shadows. She was shaken from her thoughts dully as Ior placed a silken shawl around her shoulders, muttering about the chill from the wide windows. She stepped away, reminding herself of her duty and trying to smile brightly, putting away her troubles and pushing them back. She was not within the city to wallow but to work.

"Where is the stewards court, Ior? It's uncommon for a ruler to be alone in his halls," She said mildly, settling down to sit at the delicate table in her suited sipping at the sweet cup of wine poured for her. The lords and ladies of court had been a safety for her, tongues to whisper into the kings ear their plights and just how her country may help their own causes. Without them, her task was more difficult. "When last was here their sons and daughters would always be taught and educated in the city,"

"The Lords and Ladies have come to court less often of late, My Lady," Ior said gently, her hands crossed behind her back and neck, long and delicate was very straight. "Prince Imrahil of Dol Imrahil's children were the last lords and ladies from the outer lands in Gondor in residence. The prince feared the passage home was growing too dangerous to be parted from his lands. That was some years ago." She said, though there was some hitch in her throat that suggested such was not entirely true.

"Seems a lonely keep without a court, I grew worried when I saw the steward alone in his hall. He must miss his sons and his friends greatly," she pressed, a saddened expression on her face she did not feel. She knew Denethor well enough to see that he was paranoid, angry and unkind. Likely the lords of outer Gondor, while busy battling hoards under his command, did not want their children under his decree as well. Her words felt just as stilted as her maids, for neither knew who the other may tell.

Ior's eyes widened, looking nervous, and Hedda knew she was pressing for more information of the girl, something the maid would have to learn to offer more freely if Hedda ever hoped to learn this city and its steward again. Hedda was not fool enough to believe that her maid would not report her every action to the steward himself, and Ior had no certainty that she was not a cruel woman, bent on adding to the scars on her maid's skin for imagined slights and gossip. The thought was an unkind one. She had been in Ior's place once, and her hands found hers, knotting them together tightly. "You may speak freely with me, Ior. I will not harm you. I will not order harm upon you, and I will protect you from it where I can."

Ior's eyes, a pretty brown were wide, seeking some falsehood within her and Hedda did not look away, not until the girl was sated with what she saw and dropped their hands. When she spoke her voice was quiet, half a whisper. Her words were no treason, but Hedda had no idea how shallow a cut to Denethor's ego could result in a fresh scar.

"Some defied him, My Lady, thought to shame him and dishonour his lead." She said, her voice still and slow, choosing her words with great delicacy, but it as the words she did not speak that Hedda could hear loudly.  _Denethor has no friends left._

She nodded, smiling as kindly as she could to soothe some of the fear she could see there on her shoulders. "But they will honour his call, and still do I am certain. The steward of Gondor commands great respect and loyalty, even without a court to keep." She played, the words diplomatic, "From even his servants?" She edged, not untangling their fingers when the girl gave no answer.

The next day came, and the next and the next. The sun rarely dimmed and her bed remained so soft she could hardly bear to sleep in it, rubbing her eyes as she was laced into Eowyn's butter-soft gowns. From the moment she was woken she had appointments made with the steward, to break her fast in his chamber, to dine with him at noon and dinner and sit with him in his empty court and office. Handmaidens dogged her steps, calls to stand and simper, to speak and be spoken to came constantly, leaving her few hours for her own, though she had no one to spend them with but Denethor anyhow, she could not be seen or heard in the wizard or her hobbit's company.

The days seemed to blur and still, her vision seemed to only know shadow and worry, light fled, burned out of her by that blasted stone and Denethor's fingers, trailing over her cheeks, her shoulders, seeming to touch her endlessly until she longed to slough off her skin. It seemed as if the white city had swallowed her. As a child three long years had past and yet still she had held the fire, the fight within her, tempered and trained by Boromir, even while she dreaded her fate. Now, sword apart from her, Gandalf and Pippin kept apart from her for propriety and for their stories sake, she was alone. She was weak. She had never known herself to feel so much, to feel so shattered by it and to be so worn down. But the anger, a flame burning, flaring with every one of the steward's touches, his questions, his dismissals, his indignant rage at her every failure fed it. She could feel it souring her, and every day that passed she felt less able to contain it. Even when last she'd played Idis before she'd had a sword and shield at her side, even then she had been allowed to call herself a shieldmaiden and have those beside her that cared for her, would even grow to love her. Beneath the mask of Idis, here in this city she felt a squalling babe, useless, failing, nothing again. It was enough to make her scratch at her skin, trapped, walking in circles like a caged thing.

But she hid it. She accepted it. She nodded and smiled.

She greeted him politely when she met him in his hall at dinner, shadows carved beneath her eyes and Ior by her side to serve. Questions, questions, questions, every moment he asked her more questions as if he were waiting to catch her in lies. Every one set her teeth to clench, her heart to jump in fear. She had not forgotten his words, she had not forgotten that he knew more than he should about Gandalf and the fellowship and the king that was so soon to return. When he was not questioning her he was mocking her, her family and he country. It seemed as if he was pushing her, punishing her with his every word, waiting for her to snap.

And she was not a fool. She knew no pronouncement had been made to the common people that the blood of Rohan was in the city. Not as a betrothal, as a servant, or an ambassador. To them, she was likely still the hated and lost princess that had spurned the hospitality of a greater house. She was  _not_  a fool. He was keeping her presence here quiet until he decided yet what it meant, a truth that set her stomach curling but she was trapped, unable to force his hand or to insist he announced her to the city. With his court disbanded, even rumour could not spread among anyone but the servants. She hoped that was enough to set the city calling for word while she sat in this leech's company.

"Faramir will soon return," he remarked, his mouth bleeding a red stain from the meat on his plate that had dribbled from the corners in his haste to eat. She was surprised for the moment's respite in his questions on how true the rumours of ritual sheep sacrifice in Rohan were but glad for it, glad he seemed to be speaking something of use to her now. She fixed her eyes on it, a weak on her face as she carved her own.  _Strange that I may share a meal with a lord and be the more delicate of us._ "He is away at war, securing the lands of Osgiliath from a horde that seeks to overrun it,"

"I look forward to it greatly, My Lord, too many years have passed since I saw him last," She murmured, biting hard into the tender meat. Her eyes went to the window, looking out to the world, the yellow plains and the fiery land beyond.  _Tis the border of two worlds, this city. White and grand Minis Tirith and all the flame and death there was in the world_. She could feel his eyes on her and idly, she wondered if he could heft a sword any longer. He was weak, somewhat at least, older than most warriors and grown fat with age and anger.

"He is not his brother. Weaker, a foolish boy. He has ever been, it was why I kept him apart from you when you came to the white city as a child," the old man's voice cut bitterly into her consciousness, and she swallowed down a bitter retort at his insult. To have one remaining son, and yet to mock and hate him so... she did not understand how he justified his words. How he dared. "But he may suit  _you_ ,"

"I'm sure he is strong, my lord, and he will do well in the battle, my father and cos have often longed to fight beside your sons. Tales of them are well known in my country. When the war comes and the beacons are lit -"

"Tis no talk for women, Daughter!" He spoke voice loud, seeming to quake as his hands, aged and weak fell upon her shoulder, long and pale like the fingers of a spider from the neckline of her dress to the bare skin of her shoulders and throat. He seemed to touch her more often than once her had, his cold, papery hands touching the coils of her brushed and tamed hair, her cheeks, her shoulders, even her waist when they stood to walk the gardens of Gondor after their fast. Each touch made her throat feel tight, her stomach clench uncomfortably, wanting to shake him off. But his gaze was worse. "When my son returns I will speak to him of alliances. I will decide if we must reconcile with your country in this war."

 _Alliances._ There, in such a simple word, hung her heart. Should he accept her, the war could be won. Should he deny her, aye she would be free, free to Rohan, free to Aragorn and her friends, but the world would fall. And yet Denathor would not speak of marriage, seemed unwilling to offer the idea. His anger and his insult still hung heavy, she could feel it in the air when he asked of trade, of travel and the world. He called her his daughter, but he had not forgiven, he had not forgotten, he wanted more of her. He wanted days to ascertain her loyalty, her chastity and her manners, but they did not have the days he demanded.

It rankled her, made her impatient and daily she fought the urge to snap at him, to force his hand or kill him, create a vacuum of power that Faramir, surely wiser and less weak could fill for a time. But she could not. An Eorling assassin would simply make the crevice between their world deeper still. But she was working too  _slowly_. When she imagined Gandalf and Pippin she could feel them, disappointed as they were. She had given all, promised all to make this union and yet all she could do was take tea and make her pleas, hour by hour, a servant to the whims of the steward.

"Denethor  _please_ , I have talked of alliances in cities and countries across this land, we have little time for this, I can stomach -"

Her eyes were downturned, focused on the meal before her as Ior slipped forward, a wine jug in hand to refill her goblet but the motion shocked her, made her jump in her seat. Her reflexes still expected a battle, a fight, a sword, and the maid jumped when she did, the jug slipping from her fingers, clattering off the laden table and spilling, soaking her plate and the lap of her pale dress. The girl gasped, reaching for rags to stem the spill but Denethor roared, standing from his chair as if the wine were blood and the jug a sword aimed at his very heart.

"Foolish girl!" He snapped, slamming his curled fist on the table. The wine had soaked his dark robe sleeves, the rich vintage staining it, shaking droplets onto the table and onto her own dress. His eyes and hand raised to strike. She reacted without thought, her hand curling around his wrist and knocking it away from the young girl as she stood herself, her reflexes still sharp, even after such disuse.

"You will not strike my servant!" Hedda shouted her own lips turned down into a scowl and own fists curled, stoked by the thought of running him through and her own, far away thoughts. Her hands shook, stoked not by wisdom but by feeling, by fairness.

"You tell me how I may punish the servants in my own house, Girl?" He snapped, his anger unpredictable and stoked by her actions. Such a simple thing, and yet it was another insult she had laid upon him. Another slight she had made upon him and his house. He shook off her hand, his dark eyes skating over her

"My lord I mean no insult but I will not have my maidservant punished for a fault not her own, It -" She was cut off. The slap echoed throughout the chamber before she felt it, making her head reel back in shock. When she felt it, her cheek burned, his hand still raised from the slap he'd laid upon her cheek and the bruising force he'd used to lay it. She brought her fingertips up to it, dusting over the stinging flesh of her face. She could hear Ior beside her, breathing hitched and feel the servants eyes on her, the shock and stillness hanging between them all. When Denethor spoke his voice was cold, without remorse.

"Know your place, Girl, know it is not the side with servants."

Her cheek throbbed, burning, but she did not move aside.

 


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _And I'm damned if I do and I'm damned if I don't_  
>  So here's to drinks in the dark at the end of my rope  
> And I'm ready to suffer and I'm ready to hope 
> 
>  
> 
> \- Shake it out, Florence and the Machine

 

The pain was something she knew well. Shame was something she had always known, in these halls she had expected it. But Denethor's papery hands and the bruise marking her cheek felt more a brand than any battle scar, and the fury in her chest would not be quelled by the old man, eyes alight with indignity. When she spoke her voice was cold with anger, but she was clear, her hand fanning on the table top.  _Enough_. Enough of this, enough of waiting and weakness.

_The flagstones were cold on her knees and the palms of her hands, straw carelessly cast about to gather up spilt ale and the dirt trekked through the hall. It had been grand once, she could see that from the winding pillars that hefted its high ceiling. Her severs garb, the rough-hewn dress that didn't fit and protected her from none of the cold nor the stares around her. The lord was speaking, chiding her but she didn't listen, biting her cheek hard, eyes at the front of the hall as the switch came down, drawing blood and ripping a scream from her._

"I know my place in your hall, Denethor. Do _you_? Know it is no longer as a ward, beneath and reliant upon you and your command. Too long I have let you set the demands of this alliance, Denethor. I have  _waited_  and  _simpered_  as if I and Rohan were beneath you," She bit out, one hand coming to cup her burning cheek and her teeth grinding, eyes boring into the bitter man's before her. "To be treated so in your hall I expected, but I will not  _stand_  for it another day," she spat, her hand shaking gently as he was quiet, his eyes wide with shock to hear her speak so after so many days of quiet peace and delicacy. She'd not commanded his respect in his hall, she'd not shown him the strength, the fury of her people as it was. She had let him think they were weak. No longer.

Daughter, he had called her, but he showed his own son little kindness, why would she deserve it? She should have known that when he laid that title on her, his vitriol as explosive as her own at such a slight. And yet for the would-be-king and the Eorling princess, it was enough to stop all this pretending.

"Long have I allowed you to insult my country and me as if we were the only people that needed this alliance when I know - I  _know_  my lord that Gondor needs my people and its armies just as greatly. No longer. If you've no acceptance to  _my_  terms as I present them on the morrow there will  _be_  no alliance!" She slammed her palm down hard, rattling the goblets on the table and not caring if he thought her foolish, angry, wild and wine stained. As an Eorling, as a princess, a rogue or a serving girl, she was not his to toy with.

_Fifty leagues west of the white city and her body starved for food she'd begged work at the keeps door. Farmland surrounded it, but there were taverns abound and a common stream of travellers high and low born heading for Gondor. The town and hall were well used to strangers seeking for work, and small and quick as she was, she had the form to be a scullery maid._

The words fired her, flamed her anger and rattled the chains she had willingly walked into. When she stormed into her chamber her grip on her skirts was so tight she near tore them, trying to stop herself from lashing out. Ior was quiet, her back bent and eyes to the floor, likely confused and afraid. Hedda paused, her knuckles white, taking care to slow her breath as the girl lit candles about the room with shaky hands. In the delicate yellow glow it was easier to be gentle, to straighten her own back and fall into her chair. She breathed deeply, not wishing to frighten the maid further and masking the fire the steward had wrought.

"My lady you should not -" She began, twisting her hands together with her eyes still down. Her brown hair seemed gold in the light and Hedda stopped her, raising one hand and patting the chair beside her without a word. Ior sat gently, on the very edge of her chair, eyes on her folded hands.

"My actions were thoughtless, Ior, forgive me if I have made your place in these halls more difficult," Hedda's words were gentle, and she laid her hands over the sweet girls folded clenched fists. She relaxed a little under the touch, sharing warmth and kindness with her.

_It was no spilt goblet that led her to the lords ire that time, but her own foolish mouth. A mere few weeks under a false name and learning to serve, she'd attended the lord in his hall, serving a breakfast so rich it could have made her retch to he and his favoured guard. She saw on his wall the sword, old and unsharpened, ill respected and stolen. Serving forgotten she had gone to it, her eyes wide in recognition and a gasp on her lips. When he saw her attention caught it he called it his ancestral blade, the rich and ancient thing masquerading as a symbol of his ties to Rohan, a land he'd never seen. She knew the stories of these swords, heard tell and seen tapestries of their make and design and never seen one - never, because everyone was buried rightfully with their master._

"My - my place?" She whispered, her eyes finally reaching her own, their dark depths wet and frightened. "My lady it's  _yours_  I fear. The steward took this as a slight, that you would defend a servant from rightful punishment - he will not forgive it, My Lady," Her words were quick, mousy but she shifted forward, clasping their hands together more tightly.

"He will not. My words, my ultimatum was made in anger but it was necessary. The union I offered here was one he would never accept easily, I hoped but… now I know I will not wed Gondor. I was wrong to offer it, and more foolish to let him set the terms of it. Rohan needs strength in this and in me."

"But they must be! Even the common folk know that Rohan and Gondor were bound once, and trade and war and wealth were greater then. When you came the first time to the city I was a child but they all spoke - they all said our city would be great again," Tears were welling in her eyes, her voice cracking and breaking and Hedda was shocked to hear what the girl knew, what she felt.

"The city will be great again, Ior, I promise you this." She spoke in whispers, their fingers intertwining, trying to make her believe the promise she made. "The white tree will bloom and the king will return, I  _know_  he will, I have seen it. When the beacons are lit he will come, and they will light if I must set the spark myself. Rohan and Gondor will be bound, but not by marriage, and not by the steward."

There was a heavy silence between them, and in the candlelight, the girl's eyes seemed endless. When she spoke it was a whisper, their hands knotted together so tightly it was as if she feared letting her go. "You mean to leave again."

"I will not run again. I will offer Denethor a choice, and if he will accept no alliance under my terms, under my terms and  _Rohan's_ , I will leave." It was an offer she would have loved to make as a child here, but one she'd never dared ask him for. She knew better now that offering herself up to be wed would no longer do, it wasn't enough.

"My lady -" The girl said, he voice shockingly loud and clear, her own eyes widening at her force before they flickered down again. "You - you are not… not what the city said you were… there were rumours - so many rumours -"

 _"Those swords are old, buried and entombed!" She had shrieked, thirteen years old and foolish. Her knife was hidden away in her chambers but the boldness it gave her made her believe she was immune from a lords rage. She was not. "Thief! This is the pride of your house? A_ shieldmaiden's _sword?"_

"I know them. I heard them whispered through the city, Ior, I know what the steward said of me, and some of it might even be true. I am not well mannered or pure as Denethor would want in a daughter. You've seen that much, does it make you think less of me?"

"No - no my lady, but the scars on your legs, I do not understand -" she looked near on the verge of tears, and it struck Hedda how fragile the place of a maid was in this high tower. Saving her from a slap was one thing, but would it mean she was cast down into lower service or poorer treatment for seeing it?

"Do  _they_  make you think less of me, Ior?" She pressed, stroking her thumb gently over the girls shaking knuckles to keep her calm. Eventually, the maid quieted enough through watery eyes to shake her head, and Hedda was sated.

"Would you help me pack my things? I am to speak with the steward tomorrow and if I must leave I would do so swiftly."

_Two long years passed, high halls not willing to take a scarred server but tavern work was simpler, demanded less sensibility and simpering, even if it was more dangerous and she was not the only girl that cared a knife to do it. And at night there was no guard to pass, the world free to her as she made a name in the fighting pits, her knuckles bruised and bloody and scars littering her within weeks. But she grew stronger, she grew known. She grew bold again, with the wit and speed to wound and kill and vowed she'd not bow to be beaten again. But the memory, the scars, a dozen more claiming her legs would not leave her, nor the memory of that sword._

She could feel the same stone, cold here as it was in that forgotten farming keep. But in Gondor she did not bow again, her head held high as the steward scowled up at her. No more bowing, no more begging.

"I have come in good faith, Denethor, but with the weight of what is coming on my shoulders, I can no longer wait at your leisure. If an alliance is to be made, tell me now how my father can aid you and what you will offer him. If you will not have one I must leave to aid him as I can." She expected her voice to falter, to feel weak after so long without a sword beside her. But curiously, she felt strong as she did in armour, her words enough of a threat without the silver of her blade. That certainly shook when Denethor chuckled, his chin to his chest and the sound deep and cracking.

"Does Théoden think himself clever, Girl?" The grim steward said from his throne. Her eyes narrowed to think he saw Theoden's work in this, not her own. "Send a daughter to try for peace while he keeps his men armed? Send a pitiable offering to sway the people, as if the wretches in my cities slums could force my hand?" His voice rose, spittle gleaming on his lips as he mocked her. His guard surrounded them closely, and quickly it occurred to her that she needed her blade beside her. That Denethor may not respect the safety of guest right after this.

"Your people look to you for wisdom, Denethor, for peace and you deny them their king and their rightful friends!" She bit out, her jaw clenched tight. "I ask you  _again_ , Denethor, will you make peace with Rohan? The peace and the hand of friendship  _you_  need as much as we do,"

"But Idis, you bring no peace with you." There was a gleam in his eyes, light with mirth, a trick, and he stood slowly, on weak legs. "An assassin! Sent for who, Girl? Sent for my heart or my sons? Sent to end my line with the blade of my ancestors?" He mocked her, throwing down something so heavy it cracked, the sound echoing in his chamber. It was her blade,  _Boromir's_  blade. They had ransacked her room, but then she supposed, with her things packed before she left that morning, the knife buried at the bottom of her pack for an escape she had hoped she'd not need.

" _Liar_! I never -" She gasped, stepping forward quickly. It was madness, an accusation beyond reason but perhaps, to the people, not impossible. And had she not wished for it? To drive the blade into this old and fumbling man to ease her way in this city? She had given him another reason to fault her for this broken alliance. Rohan would be blamed again.

"My city has need of yours, you are right in that. But I would not lower myself to your king." Without warning she felt cold, gauntleted hands on her shoulders, pressing her to the ground and she fought, snarling out the stewards name as she was held on hand and knee. Forced to bow to him but she struggled, lashing out until their grip tightened so hard she couldn't move. "An alliance you looked for in this war, Girl, but a  _hostage_  will achieve the same."

_She could feel it, her hands curling into small fists in the dry stalks of hay as half the houses staff watched on. The punishment was always public. Her eyes darted from stranger to stranger, the kitchen girl that had rapped her knuckles for taking mouldering bread, the seamstress that had sewed her shift too short to free a length of cotton for her own hair. They called her another name, just one of so many she'd chosen, and she looked away. Her eyes fixed on that sword, displayed behind the great table as the first blow came, breaking the unbroken skin._

His eyes were unkind, hateful but gleaming at his invented tales and he calmed somewhat as he stood, his heavy furs swirling around his feet he circled her like a mare at action once more. Without warning her riding gown, the practical, ladylike dress was torn from her, her soft shift ripped to expose her scarred skin. She fought, struggling against the hands holding her as cold air flooded her, making her skin prickle and leave her near naked in the shreds of it.

"It seems even Theoden could not contain you," He said, his voice quiet and his hands reached for her, those cold, pale fingers tracing her scarred back as she struggled against his armoured guards. Strong as she was, she was unarmoured, restrained, trapped as he touched her. "And even still you are a shame to his house," He spat, hidden from her view as her head was pressed into the flagstones, only able to see the pale stone and hear his footsteps behind her. "You think you can command me? A girl, a wilful, foolish  _girl_? You are not fit for my sons, you are not fit for  _my_  city."

A scream ripped from her when she felt the sting of a switch bear down on the raised, scarred skin of her shins. The blow burned, making her shudder in shock as a guard brought it down again. Denethor didn't enact the blows himself and she lost count, stars dancing behind her eyes as his hands traced her bare shoulder blades, curiously, horrifically gentle as fresh blood spilt.

_Two years passed in tavern work and brawling at night. Two years and a half hundred more scars of punishment she'd earned and fought she'd lost. Two years it had taken, and two years she had thought of this hall and this sword. It was quiet, guards unconscious at its gates and master sleeping in his bed._

_Her jaw clenched, eyes set. It hung in his hall, the lofty catch he and his had plundered from her people's tombs. He knew not what it was, only that it held history and weight and symbols he could not know. But symbols she knew, symbols she had learned when even Rohan had forgotten them._

_Shieldmaiden. Woman and Strength._

Bloodied on the floor, her breath catching on her throat and eyes blurred from pain and shock. But she looked in his eye, even curled on the cold ground, her breathing shallow and sweat beading on her brow. With a slap, she had found strength again, with a slap she had fought him. A switch would not break her again, even as she was gathered up, body shaking with shock and pulled from the hall under his orders.

_It was her own, her shieldmaiden sword, and it made her strong._

"No. You, Denethor, you, are not fit for Gondor."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another one of those scenes I've had written for a long time, sorry for such a break between updates I really wanted to get this right! I hope her thought process is clear to everyone, the girl has snapped but dang if she aint right.


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _A set of eyes had pinned him  
>  Became his version of a kingdom  
> She's everything the devil can't be  
> When she's singing to me "Glory" _
> 
> \- Glory, Dermot Kennedy

 

It was still, quieter than Edoras had any right to be and had been too long. But the city could not ready, not until it had the reason, not until they were called. There were meetings, plans of action and attack, but without knowing when and if the beacons would light, what deal may be struck they were hypothetical and clumsy, preparing for a dozen eventualities only a rare few of which could end well. Aragorn listened, offered what he could but learned more than he taught, learned just how slim their chances were of making the alliance Hedda had left to make. 

 

Of course it made his mind turn too often to the white city. There was a part of him in years past, that had half wished to see Gondor razed. If it would free him, purify the festering line of stewards and erase Elendil’s shame, perhaps it would be better. From its ashes a better history could grow, a new tree and new city. As it was, Gondor had swallowed yet more of him. In the days since Hedda, Pippin and Gandalf had gone, he had found himself seeking solitude, foolish and pitiable as it was. His eyes were often on that east horizon, looking to the high mountains where beacons lay, waiting and manned - even after all these years to be called. Sometimes Legolas, Gimli or Eowyn would sit beside him, but their words, kind as they were, were too understanding. They treated him like a wild horse like mad Breggo had been, wounded by battle and loss. He kept his words to himself, unwilling to speak of what had grown between them and what the both of them had lost, but it seemed his friends were not blind. 

 

There were pieces of her scattered around Theoden’s hall, to see her shield slung over Shakas shoulders, her sword at Eowyn’s belt. Even the Drutdeor, with their sigil shining on their clothes and armour, was a wound, a reminder of what she had built and left behind. For himself he had taken her pipe, the rough white wood in his peaceful moments the furling smoke tasted sweeter from hers than his own. When they left this hall, when they went to war, he wondered if even blood and battle would make him think of her. 

 

He tried to fill his mind with strategy and fellowship and work, to plan for the days ahead. But when he looked to distant days, to the passing of this war and to the crown he would have to wear it held no shine. _She will be safe, at least, but will she be happy when you steal Minis Tirith from under her and some stranger steward?_ She did not want for thrones, he knew that much about her, and it was another gulf between them.To take one up was her sacrifice to all of them, to throw herself into a tenuous, uncertain and dutiful life she had never wanted to barter an army.  _But where will Denethor and Faramir take her when they have no seat in the city?_ He did not want for a crown, but he could not deny it, could not run from it any longer, she had walked beyond the gates of the city, how could he not?

 

That night beyond the battle of Helms Deep, when he held her to him, when he kissed her and in their one stolen sunrise he would have let his blood spill out, the curse of Elendil and all its ancestors and demands gone to dirt. That stolen day he had been only a ranger and she had been a rogue. But even that was dangerous to think, it offered a path that was barred to both of them by blood, by circumstance and now, by some fresh promise. She had known it then and he had accepted it, but he had been certain there would be some way for them. She had known better, kept her feelings closer and been wiser, but he did not regret his own actions. 

He did his duty still, day by day assisting Theoden and Eowyn in Rohan’s work, training with his fellowship. Battle was coming, a necessity but not a hope, and he would be ready. But until they had a call to war there was no true help he could give, the stillness rankling him. He needed drive, a path, he needed to move and all around him knew that this waiting only made him more restless. In the training yard come midday Theoden met him, sword in hand. He was an honourable fighter, a golden king as befitted him, and Aragorn, his thoughts with her as they always were, could only think how little Hedda’s skill did not match it. When he disarmed the king he nodded his head and offered to share his wine at the edge of the yard, where his daughter would have knocked him to the ground with her fists and clawed back her victory and her pride. The rich red warmed him, but still, his eyes looked to the mountains and Theoden caught the action. It seemed every man in Rohan knew where his heart and his eyes lay without a word of his own. 

 

“No word yet has come,” the king said, his words quiet but for the splash of wine as it refilled their cups. “I cannot think why Denathor would delay lighting the beacons if there was a accord through marriage.” 

 

“Perhaps she found another way,” he murmured, his voice quiet, hope clear in his tone that Denathor would give her what she was due. He swallowed a mouthful of his wine to cover the expression on his face, hoping this delay was the fault of contracts and negotiation, not a failure or worse - success. “Perhaps the steward accepts her as the ambassador you painted her,” 

 

Theoden’s expression was grim, and the hope dwindled somewhat within him. He was certain that Théoden had no wish to speak of this, but he craved to hear anything of Hedda as he had no news of her he sought a little more of her story that this family may offer. Long hours waiting for word, for light, for an end to this waiting, it wore on him, made him think too long of following behind her, of spoiling her plans for his own desires, denying Gondor of either of them. It seemed the king needed to speak his thoughts though, so few in his court knew more than the lies that surrounded his daughter. “Hedda seems certain that Denethor will still accept her at all, that he will still be wise enough to see we need this alliance or wise enough to listen to his court when they demand he make this bethrothal. But with all the uncertainty between our lands, with the discord I made with the steward in my anger - anger that he let her go or driven her out or still had her in his grasp…” he mused, the cup of wine at his own lips as they walked slowly, leaving the perimeter of the training yard as they spoke of more private matters. “Perhaps I made Gondor more dangerous for her than she knows,” 

 

“You thought her dead all these years,” Aragorn murmured, looking to the cobble stones at their feet. He would not blame Theoden for the strife between their lands - it began long before his time and what father, what king would not seek to avenge a child that vanished under another lords rule? 

 

“I did not at first.” The king spoke as he looked out towards those far mountains, the training ring left behind them as they strode through the village surrounding the keep toward the hill he often took watch from. “When word reached that she left the city I thought her waylaid on her journey home, or afraid to return. With time I thought perhaps she meant to punish me for sending her away. I never thought she would discovered her heritage,” His eyes were distant and Aragorn splayed his palm on his shoulder, meaning to be a balm to him but with little help he could offer. He yet knew little of those days, he knew little of her life at all before the fellowship. What he knew of Theoden was a warrior and a king, the strength his people needed. But what he had seen as well was fear and doubt, when they had fled to Helms Deep, and their powerless now and all those years ago, waiting for his daughter, waiting for the beacons. The golden king was as weak as Aragorn in the face of it.

 

“But the weeks grew long, her brother and her cousins grew older. Then years passed and my hope wearied and waned. I blamed Gondor, I thought they had driven her out or hostaged or that she had never left the city at all and lay buried beneath it. I plotted war, but her maid had sworn she had fled on her own feet. I could not face the might of Minis Tirith, not when I had no proof they’d harmed her. I had to accept she was in the world beyond I or Denethor.” The king brought him palm to his chin, soothing over his golden beard and Aragorn did not push him for more, not yet, allowing him a moment to breathe as he moved his hand from the mans shoulder and the two kept walking over the dry yellow grass. 

 

“I sent out the story of her working as a trader, an ambassador for Rohan not because I still held hope of connection with Gondor, but because I hoped she would hear it and know I would give her a path home if she asked for it. “ He sighed, looking ultimately old, and wildly sad. “This was not the path I would have hoped for. This is a dangerous life she has made, with many foes and dangerous friends.” He said, turning his eyes to Aragorn, his watery blue gaze as hard as ice, the warrior mask he wore when needed. Aragorn did not look away. The danger in her life was never written, never planned, but it was a danger, a thrill she courted that even Eowyn had seen within her. Aragorn was not certain the woman he knew would have taken any path that did not lead to it. 

 

“She has a great number of friends in this life. Perhaps if she stayed in the white city she would not have an army willing to pledge themselves to her,” Aragorn spoke, nodding his head towards Kottr, the little knife girl just off their path trading slashes with Eowyn in the filed Aragorn often kept his watch from. Both preferred to be away from the busier training ring to test their skills and it had become common when they returned from Isenguard for the mismatched members of that guard to train in the bright sun, one eye on technique and the other on he or the unlit beacons beyond. 

 

“You may be right,” he conceded, tilting his head toward the short, vicious girl that spoke more with her knives than her words. He had fought his acceptation of her wild friends, but after Helms Deep, after Tanner fell he had accepted no word against them, and had turned his eye away when Eowyn had stitched their sigil into her clothes. They stopped a ways away from the fighting women, Hedda’s sword blade flashing in Eowyn’s grip as they finished their bout. 

 

“But perhaps she would never had needed it, perhaps if none of this had happened she would have been safe in the city these years.” The king sighed, and he understood. Theoden had failed her, and she had failed him, but always it was to protect what he loved. As Eowyn sheathed her sword, her lips turned into a smile that made her fair features glow. “It may be true that she is not my blood, but she is my daughter. I would see her shielded from what I can in this life, even if it be you and the power you will wield,” 

“I would never do her harm,” Aragorn snapped, his teeth grit and he knew it foolish, sure they both knew he would never lay hand on her with ill intentions. These were not words he would share with the king of the horse lands, but it seemed as if he was expected to ask permission, to beg for her hand when they both knew it was already gone. That dream was far distant, he could rule all middle earth, but to break the bonds of a rightful marriage for his own desires, that would ruin Hedda, would ruin Theoden and her family, and she would not have it. He was trapped in the bonds of his name and hers again, and he thought how much simpler it would be to be what they once were again.

 

The fair princess dusted off her riding gown and walked toward them, Kottr slipped away without word as she always did, the two kings nodded in greeting as she fell into step beside them but Theoden continued speaking, not faltering in his words. He felt crowded, cornered by this family and his affections for a moment, the two finally questioning the affair they'd known about for weeks. 

 

“But you would love her? I am no longer blind, Aragorn, I have seen what you feel for her,” He did not deny it. Would not, his face turned down and teeth clasped as tight as his hands. He did not answer, the silence stretching between them and his eyes fixed on the mountain range. 

 

“And I have seen that she returns it,” Eowyn interjected, her voice so gentle he felt again as if they were soothing him when he had showed no anger within him. “She cares for you,” She said gently, her voice gentle and he swallowed, idly his hand went to the braid at his wrist, thumb stroking over the delicate knots and silver rings running through it. Eowyn followed the action, her light eyes had often seen the token on his wrist and he had never taken care to hide it, but never before had she made mention of it. He thought of the stable, bright as it was and the last kiss between them. Of words she had not wanted to give him, of a promise she had not made, knowing it would be broken one day or the next for duty. Words he had no voice but to make her hear, in hopes it would make her stay, choose a different path. His eyes turned ahead, and he felt Eowyn lay her hand gently over his, the warmth of her skin a kindness that he did not seek. 

 

_But does she love me?_ For all her running, light-footed fleeing from family and duty, from marriage and Gondor, she had walked back into the arms of it all. He knew her reasons, every act in preservation and wisdom and he knew she did not go happily to meet the steward son in his city, knew it was a necessity. But flawed as he was, he wondered why she would ever have cause to love him, son of faulty kings and dying blood, stuck and still in her country while she forged ahead. 

 

He was not worthy of it. 

 

“Do you mean to protect her from me?” he asked, one brow raised in some surprise that they brought this to him so late. Did they think he would storm her decision, deny her the path she'd made and shatter any deal she'd brokered because he desired her? He would if she asked it and if she would forgive him for it. But she would not. 

 

“Perhaps.” The king considered, his eyes lighting somewhat and a small smile quirking his lips at the very idea, as if the king had any command over her. “But truthfully I fear you may be at more risk of harm and heartache in this. She is strong - stronger than most. Even if she does love you,” he said, a small smile turning his lips and though his words were dark, unkind even, and Eowyn’s own lips turned up, seeming to find some humour in his words.“Even as a child she was that way. Strong enough, I think, to weather any duty she has taken in her shoulders and find some happiness after it. I will ensure it if I can, but it does not bring me joy to know she has denied herself the choice she wanted.” 

 

“For Rohan?” he mused, tilting his head to one side as he looked out on the horizon he knew and found a change there, something small but growing. 

 

“For Hedda.” Eowyn said, her lips turning into a brilliant smile he did not see. Across the landscape, jutting over the top of a mountain he could see light, orange pinpricks growing brighter, dotting the length of the rock and the clouds above. Flames growing and burning, heat swelling, calling for them. 

" _The beacons are lit_ ," he breathed, already turning to return to the hall to head that call, to go to _action_. 


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Like constellations imploding in the night_
> 
> _Everything is turning, everything is turning_
> 
> _And the shapes that you drew may change beneath a different light_
> 
> _And everything you thought you knew will fall apart, but you'll be all right_
> 
>    
> \- Constellations, The Oh Hellos

This was darkness, this was pain she knew. She had felt it before and she had seen it in that accursed stone. She had felt the burn of it fresh on her skin in the guest hall of her home and felt it so badly it had struck out her sight. For so long she'd been blind to fight that vision. For a few foolish weeks she had been ready to accept it, to take the red on her shins and the hands on her bare skin because the seeing stone promised it. The seeing stone promised her she would bow and she did because the seeing stone had shown her fire as well. The seeing stone had promised that giving herself up to it would offer her the beacons, and that was a trade she had been willing to make once. The seeing stone had lied to her, lured her in to be beaten and bruised and see no light at the end of it, the mountains still dark and her mission failed.

Footsteps passed her by every hour. The hammer fall of armoured boots, echoing through the long corridors like clockwork. They made for a better measure of time than the two meagre meals she guessed came at midday and nightfall, and with no window to offer sunlight or stars she had no other way to tell. The cell was dark but cleaner than most, it was quiet, more peaceful than ones she'd known. The steward, it seemed had chosen to keep her sequestered, her cell the last in a long line of empty rooms and no shouts or screams to keep her from her fitful sleep. The backs of her shins were dark with bruises and blood, burning with the onset of infection she had no way to clean but to waste what little water she was given to wash away the blood and strewn straw that clung to her sweaty skin. She'd bound them with the scraps of her nightgown but they festered, swelling and foul until she struggled to stand on shaking legs. Did Denethor mean for her to die? Or did he think her strong enough to stay alive here?

Her eyes were hazy, gaze affixed on that heavy wooden door. She'd thrown herself against it upon waking here two days passed, but it did not even shake with all her effort, and the guards did not answer her shouts. She'd raged until she'd fallen, and the next day she'd not been strong enough to do it again. She heard the sound of shoes in that echoing corridor and tilted her head certain something was missing, certain there was some change she didn't understand, propped against the far wall on her straw mattress. The slot at its base flipped open and she gazed slippers - not armoured, not guards boots but light leather, slippers made to be quiet and quick. Curious, she thought, her mouth parted slightly to draw slow, heavy breath - her last meal came only hours ago, did it not? Most of it, weak stew and burned bread was still beside her, her stomach rolling and fever too high to finish. But something was kicked into her little room she didn't recognise, bundled clothing, weighed by something wrapped in between before the slot snapped shut again. She stared, curious but uncomprehending.

She tried to lift herself up, but fell clumsily to her knees on the stone floor. She pressed her dewy forehead into the stone and groaned, breathing deeply the stale, sick smell of the dungeon, finding it cooled her skin a moment. Slowly she dragged herself toward it and gathered it up, holding it to her chest as she moved back toward a wall. She splayed on the floor with her package cradled in her lap and loosed the string around it, limbs aching. The cloth fell away offering up a full waterskin, a handful of dry, salted pork, and a clay jar. She unscrewed the lid slowly and found it filled with a pale green paste that smelled sharp.

The smell of pork assaulted her senses, her nausea peaked but she bit into it, swallowing it down without tasting it and drowning it out with a heavy gulp of clean water, working not to wretch but knowing she would need the strength of good food and clean water. Breathing deeply she held the loose cloth in her hands, a cloak, patched and worn wrapped around a set of loose and stained servants garb, the tunic and leggings in brown and faded grey. Sweat beaded on her brow, certain she looked more sick than she felt and her hair hanging ragged around her shoulders, but she knew she had to be better prepared to wear this gift.

With shaking hands, brows furrowed with focus to keep herself awake she unwrapped the strips around her legs, the wounds smelled of sickness, deep red and black with bruises as she washed away the dried and concealed stains on her skin with the clean water, taking care to wash them well with the pale white cotton of her ripped nightgown. It stung, making her wince and hiss like a wounded animal, but she slathered it with that pale paste until her head spun, covering the bruised and broken skin. She'd tended wounds before, her own and her friends, but gentle hands and slow actions were not her usual fare, trying to follow the gentle pace and soothing strokes Aragorn had always used when he touched her. The scars he'd tended so long ago were fading, the skin raised but clean and healing and she followed his design, willing the fresh wounds to knit.

The distant king had told her to ask for aid when she needed it, and to ask for help was something she did rarely and with the greatest discomfort, but she was glad for whoever had saved her this time. She tore more strips from her filthy nightgown, the hem hanging ragged around her knees and wrapped them fresh, exhaustion heavy in her actions and fingers fumbling to knot them, pushing away her thoughts of the dark-haired man who had clouded her fever dreams. She had dreamt him, shining and grand in his city, and she had dreamt his face had taken hold of Denethor's, furs draping him and switch in hand until she woke screaming.

When she was done she only wanted to sleep but she didn't allow it, taking another sharp bite of her salted pork, forcing it down and following it with another and another and another until half her supply was gone and her belly felt full and more sated than it had since she'd awoken here. Her breathing was heavy but she rolled to her knees, pitching forward so sharply she caught herself on her palms, feeling the dust and grime beneath as she pulled herself back to her mattress, stuffing her contraband beneath in the only hiding place she could find. She swallowed another mouthful of water, gasping and tired and fell on her side, curling around the water skin to find sleep again.

It came fitful, not waking when her dinner was pushed through the door and sweat painted her skin and bed. She woke again and again in a haze through the night, sweating out her fever in nightmares and heat. Tossing and turning, dreaming of home, of the city, of kings and stewards she slept through the night and morning.

When she awoke again she could not tell what time found her. She could yet feel the twinge of pain, a tightness in her legs and salty sweat painting her body, but a fresh tray had slipped into her cell and she could guess she had made it to another day, last nights dinner and today's lunch both untouched. Her mind was clouded yet but clearer than it had been, her fever broken and that cloud of exhaustion didn't greet her again. She hurt still, but she felt she could stand again, climbing up on unsteady feet and shaking the haze from her head, glad to think through the lingering fog.

She stretched her limbs slowly, not wishing to overextend but knowing she would need strength, her muscles warming as she stretched her arms above her head, joints in her shoulders popping as she exhaled. Her limbs looser she sat again, unwrapping the bandages knotted around her legs to see her wounds less red and less angry beneath. She cleaned them slowly, methodical, gentle as Aragorn had been and knowing in time she would be strong again. When she was done she inched the leggings up her legs though they felt loose and uncoordinated but she was glad for cover, for warmth as she tugged off the pale gown that was stained red and ripped from her back. Dressed she brushed her fingers through her hair, finding it snarled with knots and straw, pushing it off her face she swallowed another long strip of pork, propped back against the far wall before eating spoonful after spoonful of the soup the city served its prisoners. But her eyes stayed on the door as hours ticked by.

More time passed, and with each passing moment, she felt more alert, anxiety and action slowly working its way into her blood, flexing the muscles of her legs and arms, in turn, to be ready. She tried to measure the hours, certain day must be moving closer towards the night and proved right when another tray pushed through her door.

At last, there came footsteps again, heavy, armoured soles that made her recoil, dragging her rough-hewn blanket over her body to hide her stolen clothes and rations as the door rattled, the lock clicking open with an echoing sound. She rolled to her feet, fists clenched, waiting to see if anyone entered but nothing came. She took three strides toward the door, hand splayed on the heavy food as she pressed it open. The door screamed, hinges crying out and she didn't dare breathe, not until she heard a whisper of words.

"Cloak on, up the stairs and out," said a rough voice before she heard retreating footsteps and she didn't hesitate, throwing the cloak over her shoulders and slipping out. She saw the back of a guard, clothed the way she had expected but he didn't look at her as she followed in his footsteps, shadowing him until she came across a long, curling flight of stairs. She knew it should be guarded, but even the gate she came across was unlocked, pushing it open with gentle hands until she was thrust out into the open night air. She breathed in deeply, the smell, the feel of breeze shocking her into a stillness she could not afford. Then she felt a hand at her shoulder and remembered her place, there just behind the walls of the white citadel, the path to the High Hallows and the mountain far beyond her.

Wide-eyed and swathed in a cloak Ior's face greeted her, two guards pointedly turned away from them, one eyeing the path away and the other on the door. Two guards on this gate was not uncalled for, but clearly, they'd forsaken their duty. Ior answered none of the questions painted on her face, dropping a pair of supple boots to the floor to cover Hedda's bare, dusty feet and she stepped into them quickly.

"The guards are changing we've only minutes, My lady," the girl whispered, her hair knotted in a long braid meant for travelling. She had so many questions, her hands fumbling to close cloak and tug up her hood - but she would ask them later when they had more time.

"This is too dangerous for you," Hedda hissed, taking the girls hand as Ior lifted a heavy basket of washing from the ground beside their feet and pushed it into her hands. "These guards -"

"Are friends, mine and now yours who will tell no one until the morning that your cell has emptied," the girl hissed in return, tugging her hand sharply, the girl near shaking with fear but her steps were quick as they slipped down the long corridor toward the steps upward cut in stone. One guard followed on their heels, the other staying behind, most likely to wait for the next shift to relieve him of duty. They followed the path away, Ior taking care to keep their steps slow, unsuspicious as Hedda's costume and prop suggested they were. Both were accustomed to servants steps, light and unnoticed.

"I cannot free your horse from the stables but we've no cause yet to be stopped at the gates to the lower streets," Ior murmured beneath her breath, and she noticed the guard that walked with them had removed his helm, likely playing off duty. When Ior took his elbow as if they were lovers it would appear he was simply escorting his paramour through the dark streets. When the two of them passed by a pair of guards making their nightly rounds without even a glance, she knew the girls trick had worked. The talent of servants, she supposed as they walked on, slipping through the guarded gates with only the excuse of late work.

"Ior, I cannot leave the city," Hedda breathed, the escape pushing her body so quickly after such inactivity, the fever lifted but not gone and the haze still clinging to her. She stopped her, hands white where they gripped the basket and eyes wide and earnest. "I thank you for this, but there is no safe path out and I must aid your city where I can," she breathed, chest heaving with exertion. Ior looked unsurprised, a small smile taking her lips.

"That is good, my lady, if you did care to leave I'm not certain I could get you out but I have a safe place for you arranged on the edge of the city." that stopped Hedda short, her eyes wide, not certain she had heard correctly.

"How can you know -"

"Because they told me to bring you there. Amsden, tell her The Star is safe," she hissed towards her quiet knight, still hanging on his arm with a friendship and comfort that suggested it was deeper than this escape.

"From the outside, it's a reputable place and the cellar is deep," he confirmed, the guards dark eyes flicking to her. "They'll not think or dare to raid it when so many visit, and when they know you are gone it will not be difficult to lead her pursuers from the city, they'd not expect you to stay." Ior nodded, a grateful smile on her face and Hedda found it strange, a fresh feeling to be so reliant on others for her own safety, particularly the girl she'd thought so quiet. Hedda breathed her thanks, still uncertain, still suspicious but grateful herself to feel the open air and the night sky on her skin.

They descended further into the outer reaches of the city, the citadel growing more distant and the sounds growing louder, even as the sky began to grey. It was easy, near too easy to slip through the gates that gained them entry to the lower rings, quick lies and pretty eyes did more than enough, words of a laundress in the lower ring opening their path. Too easy, far too easy, but she supposed, it was more important to bar entry to the upper rings than it was to let servants pass by into the bowels of the city. Lower and lower they went, until the buildings shone less white, not towering above them any longer and letting her see the world outside the city again. And she saw it, there in the distance crowning the mountain, fires blazing in a string.

"The beacons - how are the beacons lit?" She breathed, having to work hard not to stop still to look at them as if in a dream. The blood was dry on her skins, wounds clotting and legs shaking a little less and the beacons, the beacons were blazing. She felt she could scream heavenward to see it,

"Your wizard and the halfling disobeyed the steward. I went to him, told him Denethor had taken you. He was furious, my lady, raging and he lit them himself, or so the guard is saying,"

"You told Gandalf?" She muttered, stepping from the path of a cart stacked with hay that was clearly fresh to the city, its driver weary from long travel and it heralded a soon rising sun, it heralded the end of the swathing darkness that was protecting them.

"I would have lit the fires myself if had asked it of me, but he trusted us to free you," Ior breathed, ducking sharply to the left, dragging Hedda through a winding path across the backs of a few ramshackle houses, crumbling plaster and stone littering the floors. She felt lost, as weak and unsteady as she had trapped in that cell. She had known her maid was stronger than she pretended, but this rebellion, this law-breaking was wild. What did the girl stand to lose if she was caught? Why did she risk so much?

Ior bent, brushing old, stray straw from the ground to unearth a cellar entrance, pushing Hedda down into the dark opening without word. The door slammed behind them and she could hear her breath, wondering if this was another trap until light flared, a lantern letting out a delicate glow and throwing shadows over their faces and she found the guard had not followed them into the dark. Ior eyed her, expression serious and stony.

"There's food and a pallet set for you, My Lady. I'm sure this place is far beneath you but I trust -"

"How can you trust the owners here? Why would they send you to free me? How can you know they'll not turn us in?" She hissed, the lantern shaking in her hands at the thought of putting herself so thoroughly in the hands of some stranger. Ior looked at her as if her question was surprising as if the answer should be obvious.

"The beacons lighting has started something, my lady," she whispered, and the lantern made a halo around her face as she leaned closer. "The people are scared, so scared. They know Rohan - your people - are called to answer the beacons, but it doesn't make sense - not if the story the steward told of you was true and you came here to end his line. They know war is coming but he's said nothing, sent out no word to anyone beneath the second ring. The merchants and the wealthy are leaving but we are being left behind. They know he's lying to us," she spat out, her words so strong she wondered a moment how she had ever thought the frightened maid was anything but vicious. "And as faith in the steward fails word is spreading, My lady. He won't lead us out or keep us safe but you will. You said you came to light the beacons and they're lit, you said the white tree would bloom and it has. You said you would protect us and you _must_!" 

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quicker update than I'm used to and very happy to be back! New chapters should be coming quicker and the end is in sight! thinking this will end around 35 - 38 chapters. 
> 
> Let me know your thoughts! 
> 
> x


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Every tomb, every sea, spit the bones from your teeth_  
>  Let the ransomed be free as the revel meets the day  
> Let the valleys awake, let them rattle and shake  
> In the wind that remakes all that time has worn away 
> 
> \- Thus Always to Tyrants, The Oh Hellos

 

A week had passed, and during those seven days, she and everything had changed.

 

Núrthan, the name spread around the city like water through whispers, but it was hers and the people intertwined, the name of her cause and their leader. The shield of the people. The Sindarin was foreign yet on her tongue, but in the white city, it was known to the nobles and the staff that served their halls. It was a safer name, another mask to cloud eyes from her actions and her cause where Idis would not. That was not a safe name to whisper any longer in these walls, not when they did not yet know who they could trust and the news of her escape had spread, too many still believed the lie, the treachery Denethor had fed them. It was hopeful too, a name free of the stories that clouded Idis, the past of Hedda. It was the name of a leader, and it was becoming the name of a change that was coming, passed from ear to ear as more strangers came to The Star night by night. But the name promised the people something, that she was not leading a rebellion or a war within the city walls. This was no Drutdeor and Gondor was not Helms Deep - she wasn’t gathering soldiers, rogues, shopkeepers and maids to fight and die, she was gathering people to protect when the Steward would not.

 

The morning was bright when she and three of her people, Bette, an aged seamstress, Hala, a butcher and Amsden, the flaxen-haired guard that had devised her escape. He was also Ior’s intended, and she trusted the three well to keep their eyes and ears open and yet to remain unseen. They slipped from The Star, heads down they attracted eyes even still as they followed the crowds through the cobbled streets. The parade was quieter than she had imagined, the crowds surrounding them rained flowers for love, petals for luck, stalks of dry wheat for prosperity, but there were no cheers, the actions more a morose parody than the send-offs she’d seen once long ago. The city knew where their husbands, their fathers, their sons went to do battle, each man in armour knew he may not return as the crowd followed the clatter of hooves from the higher levels. Surrounded by a chosen few in civilian clothes and inconspicuous cloaks they melted into the crush. 

 

Her eyes were narrow, taking in each face in turn as she slipped further and further up the ranks of their army through the crowd until she walked in stride at its head, across the road her friends were watching eyes, not losing her in the mass. She recognised his face with ease, falling into step beside his horse and holding out her hand. Between her fingers lay a white flower, its stem long and covered with leaves but he reached for it, his eyes so empty she feared he wouldn’t see her face as she turned towards him and murmured his name, voice a breath she hoped his surrounding guard would miss. 

 

“Faramir, you throw your life away when you are needed here,” she hissed, and finally he looked up, his eyes tracing her face. His eyes were shadowed, hollow, but he _knew_ her. He turned his face forward as she walked beside him, taking the bloom from her hand and weighing it between his loose fingers. 

 

“According to my father you’d strike the life from all of us, Idis of Rohan,” he said from the corner of his lips, stroking one thumb across the pale petals of the flower she’d offered. They’d not been close, but even years passed neither of them had changed much in look. She could see Boromir in his armour and his face, and she knew not what he saw in her, but he _knew_ her. 

 

“You know it’s a lie -“ she began, struggling to keep her voice low at his accusation. She had thought he would be wiser than that, defence rising within her and making her heart speed for fear she’d have to run. It was an eventuality she had planned for, her route plotted and distraction ready should he call his guard, but she needed to know what was happening within the citadel - spying maidservants could only offer so much information. 

 

“I know. Your hobbit friends spoke of your character and your work,“ he muttered, and she kept her eyes down, face shadowed when she saw a horsed guard’s eyes on her. 

 

“Pippin?” She interjected, the name sharp on her lips. She worried for the young man, far too kind for a place like this and a coming battle, and according to what was said, he served Denethor in his tower as he’d pledged when they came. That should have been a safe place, a titled job out of harm, but beneath the steward's hand, he may as well serve a snake. 

 

“Sam and Frodo,” he said, a small, sad smile quirking the corners of his lips that made her steps falter. Amongst everything she’d had no time to fear for them, near-forgotten the task they were trapped on and she longed to ask questions, to query where he’d met her friends on his road, how they fared, what he knew of _her_ \- but she had no time.

 

“Did you tell your father about them?” She bit out, her voice rising in fear. If Denethor knew more of the ring, of the hobbits than he should then more than Minis Tirith stood to fall with the rest of their warring earth. 

 

“Nothing,” he reassured her, and her hitched shoulders fell again, her steps coming smoothly again but knowing she had lagged too long here, knowing she had precious little left before she was shooed away or attracted too much attention. “You should leave the city before my father has your head,” 

 

“And leave Minis Tirith with only him to lead it? I cannot. When the wolves come I will be needed, Faramir, as will _you_ ,” she bit out, her teeth snapping shut at his expression, so defeated, so lost already. He obeyed his father to die but disobeyed him well enough to let her walk free. He shifted in his saddle, his horse huffing out an exhale as she considered the damage the faded lord wreaked on those he had claimed to love. She had escaped far from unscathed, how could she expect Faramir not to seek the love he was rightly owed? 

 

“I’ve no doubt they need you,” he sighed, slipping something from his belt in a smooth motion most would miss, the action covered by his flowing cape. Metal flashed and he pushed the flower back into her hands, but the weight of it was foreign. Hidden beneath its white petals and green leaves were the heavy blade she’d loved so many years. She slipped Boromir’s knife beneath her cloak and wondered if she had any right to it if truly it should be Faramir’s now - the other was buried with his brother, why should she live with this one? She swallowed, meeting his eye but his expression was too resolved, as stony as his brothers. 

 

“I’ve three hundred now that need me,” she asserted, holding his eye but not offering back the blade. It was enough of a sign of his intent. He may well have placed the city in her hand with the weight of that knife. 

 

“Send an army to my father's door and he’ll suspect a rebellion. You’ll start a war in his city while another rages outside it. You cannot do it.” His voice rose, drawing eyes

 

“Not an army, Faramir, I am protecting the people _your_ father has abandoned,” she snapped, her eyes still facing forward as the crowd moved from her path. She was conspicuous, following too close and too long but she needed him. “I have no time, I must know what your father means to do,” 

 

He turned to her and how defeated he looked, his brows low and lips turned down, quiet for a long moment. “I am not certain he knows.” He muttered, looking away from her. He offered little but it was enough to tell her the steward was as lost as she had thought. Concerning as it was, it would only lend precedence to Aragorn’s return and her cause. “Do not rely on his aid in this, Idis.” She swallowed, eyes on the flagstones. She knew it well, but to hear it from even his mouth it was terrifying. 

 

“Fight well, Faramir, but _live_ ,” she murmured, not waiting for his answer as she stepped back into the crowd. “Find us when you return.” 

 

* * *

Gathering a following was easy, knowing how to control it, how to shape it was harder. There was no army to loose them on, but peace to keep and rations to think of and children to care for. She felt trapped, looking to the faces of all around her that thought _she_ knew what to do as if she had any right, any experience in this. All she knew was fighting and death, all she knew was war and dirt. But she had known greater people than her, she had known wisdom in her life and she needed it now. Her hands splayed on the table at the head of the Star Inn, every seat and piece of floor taken with those that could come and those that would pass on her plans.

 

“The city must empty,” she said, finding her voice did not falter as she spoke. This was her course, the only “While we have respite - while we are guarded by Faramir’s journey out - we must get as many as we can from these walls. If it comes to siege there are too many now to last, and if it comes to sacking we’ll be lambs penned in with no escape. We cannot protect so many when they try to topple the walls, and this ring will be the first to fall with the fewest guards to hold it.” She explained her need and wondered if this was how her father had felt that day he’d fled to Helms Deep without the forces to fight, trying only to protect the people loyal to him. 

 

“The city is already emptying, the lords and merchants are packing as we sit here talking,” a man in the distance shouted, irritation clear in his tone. She knew already that there had begun an exodus, but it was these people that went without a word, without rations or supplies to lend them their path out. 

 

“The people cannot afford to leave, they starve as they are and you would take them from work and home?” An aged woman pitched in, a roar of descent uniting the voices in the pub. 

 

When Hedda spoke, she roared, her cheeks reddening with exertion and power. _“What work is there when your lords have run to the hills?”_ She cried over the din, hearing the voices quiet to listen to her,“What can you sell when there is no-one with coin to buy it? What home will there be when the city walls are taken?” Utter silence met her, no word from even the most rankled citizen. 

 

“We should take the citadel! His halls will hold more safety than the land beyond!” Some pock-faced sell sword shouted, his face a grin, and her eyes widened when she heard voices agree. She would not incite a riot, she could not start a war inside a war, no matter how greatly some of them seemed to desire it. 

 

“And you and Denethor’s army will perish in the assault!” She roared, raising her hands, demanding silence while whispers continued around her. “More death on both sides, less fighting hands when the battle starts and Denethor’s anger stoked when we need his thoughts outside these walls!” She willed them to see sense, willed them to accept that rebellion, that bloodshed would not serve them, strange as it felt to defend the lord she so hated. “If you crave war so then stand beyond these walls and face it when it comes. Do not seek it here,” she said, her brows low, focused on that grinning stranger that sought to stir trouble. His expression fell, turning his face away and bearing the scowls of many others. Not everyone shared his desire for blood, and the rare few that did would be dealt with quickly. 

 

“You cannot afford to leave, I know. But the lords and merchants leave their hefty stores and market vaults unguarded to spoil, and they leave their maidservants and their lessers to stay here and starve. Denethor is emptying the city of women and children that your steward chooses to save, but there are more beyond his sight that need his help. If he will not give it to you, we will take it,” her voice cut through the din and hearing it still, eyes on her at the head. “The right way.” 

 

She turned, her eyes seeking the guards where they sat in civilian clothes, hiding here but looking to her. “We have loyal guards stationed at every exit to the city, we cannot ask and beg or even demand food from those that go, but we can ask their names, their halls to see what lies empty, what stores are left to rot in their absence. Tell them we are taking a census, tell them we intend to offer protection to the empty stone. You maids, quick as you are, who know your way around these halls will take what they have left and we will use it to allow the rest of you passage out. We cannot touch the royal stores, if the soldiers are to be trapped here they must be fed - but private stores, _private stores will not be private any longer.”_

 

There was a silence, unbroken among them. Perhaps they did not expect her to suggest thievery, perhaps they expected some greater, kinder plea. But she had neither time nor trust to ask permission. She had no way to barter or beg for these peoples lives. What she had was servant staff from every hall across the city and a means to an escape for some of them. 

 

“Every portion we take will be accounted for and shared. We take what we need to survive - not to plunder and live richly,” she said with steely eyes, trying to meet as many gazes as she could, trying to drum this lesson in. Let them run wild, let them steal jewels and furs and the city would be sacked by its own people before the orcs came. “coordinated and conducted by those I trust and no other. If I catch any soul stealing beyond what we need I _will_ turn you into the city guard, have faith in that.” She was lucky, she supposed, to have such experience with rogues and rough people. She knew who could be trusted to steal bread to feed their family and who would take every crumb to stuff themselves fat. “Am I clear?” She asked, awaiting an answer, eager to see if she still had the following that had entered that night. She was met with a hearty call, hugs and goblets raised, the spirit of the room less disorganised, less wild, connected by her goal. She nodded to herself, gladdened to hear it. 

 

“You cannot go north, the fight at Osgiliath will be in our path and orcs with them, so we turn south. The mountains of Loss Arnach will offer cover and some shelter and with the Erui there the land will be fertile for foraging. I order no one to go, I order no-one to steal or fight, but if you will do it we must do it quickly, I want as many to find refuge six days hence, after that I cannot guarantee a safe path south. Any fighting bodies we have, those with skill in sword, axe, butchers knives or a blacksmiths hammer, I ask that you name yourselves. Those that wish to leave can provide some safety to the exodus as they go. If you’ve skill, I’d take your name so that we may organise our numbers into those that would go and those that would stay to help us that remain.” Offering the numbers some opportunity at valour, proving their strength even as a simple guard to the women and children here would give those more violent a place. If they had a place, they would be less likely to incite. 

 

“For the sick, the weak or those that will not leave we will shelter in the High hallows - the houses of the dead. Heavily guarded as well, but I have authority from those loyal to the returning king that under cover of night we will be able to fill it without a fight.” She gestured towards her civilian clothed guards. Some were loyal faultlessly to Denethor, but it was true what Ior had said, that they had seen a bloom on the white tree and known what it meant, known that Denethor would not control them much longer.The silence was between them again, then whispers, light and low as they spoke about the ideas about her and she let it wash over her, letting it pass and subside again. There was no chance every whisper was positive, that every man, woman and child would obey, but there was enough; a roar went up, a calling, screaming ‘ _Aye!_ ’

 

She let herself smile, pushing back the hair from her face as she stepped down from the table. It would have to be careful work, under the radar of those guards that remained loyal to steward or fearful of his ire, but those numbers were dwindling day by day. Day by day the people were beginning to learn they were loyal to their city, to their home, not him. She readied herself, not for war as perhaps she wished, but for something far more difficult, her days filled with accounting and rationing and sorting to keep the peace, a role their steward had forsaken. 

 

She turned Amsden at her left as he helped her step down, his other hand clasped with his intended beside him. The two made a sweet pair, and the affection between them made her ache, but she turned her head to the side to speak quietly to him. She felt some guilt for what she had to ask of him, but she had no other. 

 

“You know we must get word to Theoden’s camp. They must know what’s happening within the city and we must know when they mean to come and their numbers. _If_ they mean to come,” she spoke gently, her eyes watching his reaction but seeing his gaze was set and he nodded, accepting her task without needing to beg it of him. It would be the end of his career within the prison guard if they failed, and she knew how great the plea was, to send him into an uncertain road to a war camp.“I am sorry to part you and to take you from your duty but there is few I trust better to make the journey. If you do not stop you’ll meet them on the road in two or three days time,” 

 

“I will go,” he nodded, squeezing the hand of his beloved and a part of her wondered how the younger woman would take the separation but even Ior accepted it with a nod. her face was set and stony, the maid more bold than some soldiers. The three of them knew there was no time to be selfish or comfortable yet. She swallowed, feeling some shame to ask it, her eyes on the filthy wooden floor as she folded her hands in his. 

 

“And… Aragorn - our king is coming, he will ride to war with my father and my friends.” She said, her voice gentle, thinking of him, wondering how uncertain they had left things between them. Perhaps he expected to find her wed within the city, perhaps he expected she was already dead “I would give you a message for him,” 

 

“Anything, Núrthan,” he nodded, his bravery unchallenged in the face of her childish fancy intertwined so readily with the future of their city. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another name, another war, but these ones are really quite different. Núrthan is a combination of Sindarin 'Than' (shield) and 'Nur' people, as far as I can translate (i cant) and I wanted to really differentiate it from 'Thandris' which she isn't about to go by yet. She can't exactly lead a group of people that have near elected her while calling herself a queen. 
> 
> In other news, I was so pleased to be nearly finished with this fic (which has taken an eternity) and then I saw Aiden Turner as Kili again and started on a Hobbit fic, so watch this space for that.


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Feet don’t fail me now_  
>  Take me to the finish line  
> Oh my heart it breaks every step that I take  
> But I’m hoping at the gates,  
> They’ll tell me that you’re mine 
> 
> \- Born to Die, Lana Del Rey

 

The encampment at Dunharrow was growing. 6000 spearmen strong had come from the lands of the horse lords, but still, it was too few. Theoden had said as much, disheartened by the lack of his once more loyal, braver lords and the heavy feeling that hung over every man that made camp. Even while he swore more would come, they had not the time to wait for them. Perhaps more armies stirred, perhaps lords called their banners and sharpened their swords, but they were not here.

"Every hour lost hastens Gondor's defeat. We have till dawn. Then we must ride.” Aragorn murmured, speaking to the king and his fellowship on a rocky outcrop, overlooking the morning campfires and the risen sun, certain of that. They’d waited three days beneath the shadow of the mountain and the ghosts that haunted it, their numbers swelling slowly from across the golden grass. It had begun grandly, the wives and daughters of Rohan riding out to camp and tending cookfires and their lovers sweetly, some cheer about them that Gondor had called them to war that their offering had succeeded. Idis was spoken of, most assumed that the returned daughter of Rohan was wed to buy them this invitation, but as the days passed and night fell and more summons went unanswered the mood turned bleak. The mountain did not help them: stories had been passed around the camp in whispers, that spirits made the wind cold and the horses stir with fear, and rightly so their camp had turned quiet.

Shaking himself from thought he followed his companions, taking a midday meal with the fellowship and the mismatched motley of the drutdeor. Two more had returned, slipping into camp on their way from some far-reaching farm they’d defended, and three more had pledged themselves to that strange band with Shaka at the head. Their numbers did not reach even fifteen but their hearts held more lust for the coming battle than the thousands around them.

Shaka took on a fleet-footed healer that had no compunctions amputating legs and patching wounds in the heat of battle, leaping from wounded man to wounded man. that healer taught three further, more squeamish maid to follow her example. He still felt a pang to see Hedda’s shield on her back, the gleaming gold and dark wood may have suited the taller woman, and she wore it and leadership well, but it was Hedda’s crown and all knew it would return to her if she could take it back. They were as merry as always, rough and roguish as they were, and spent every fire lit night sharing wine and stories with each other and Aragorn’s fellowship. Gimli, it seemed, would deny none of them company, their attitude likely a reminder of mead halls and family. They did not trust or share easily, but they made fast friends. It did not escape his notice that Legolas spent many an hour quietly training with Kottr, the silent knife girl as they traded blows and light steps. He’d half mind to wonder if the small girl was an elloth herself, even without the unearthly looks she had the knowing gaze of age beyond her youth and unparalleled grace.

For his own, he spoke often and was kept busy and he was glad for such distraction. Theoden required counsel, the drutdeor his respect, the fellowship his kinship. Alone in his tent, he had his thoughts and his dreams, but they were shadowed with uncertainty. The night they’d ridden out of Rohan he’d dreamed of her, hung from the walls of Minas Tirith by the nameless steward he’d never met that she so hated. He’d dreamt she swung in a bridal gown and finery without a blade and without him to help her and he had awoken bearing his own steel as if he could cut the rope he’d seen in his sleep.

The next night he’d dreamt she was safe, standing beside a man that looked like Boromir and draped in the flag of Gondor. He’d dreamt he kissed her again, uncaring and bold and she had kissed him until she crumbled. In his dream, Boromir’s twin stood behind them and brought the branch of white wood down on her skin until red ran across every street in their city. He had awoken sweating, tangled in his sheets and shamed at his own selfishness, at the desire he could not even entertain in dreams without putting her in danger. the dreams were not nightly, and he thanked the valour for some peace in his wretched head.

At last, well after noon had painted the sky pink a rider was spotted some leagues away, bearing Gondor’s flag at his horses back. The summons was given to Theoden before he had even breached the encampment as it should and Aragorn did not await his own summons to join the meeting, waiting beside the golden king as the rider was delivered to their tent. The rider was tall, muscular and flaxen-haired with the build and armour of a guardsman of low birth but decent ranking. He bowed low when he saw them, but had no time for introductions before Theoden demanded word.

“Do you bring word from Denethor?” Theoden asked, his fists clenching the empty air and his voice an impatient bark. The guardsman looked discomforted, swallowing before tugging a scrap of stained cloth from the neck of his mail, holding it tightly in his hands that shook with some exhaustion from his long ride.

“The steward does not command me any longer, My Lords,” he said, seeming to have lost his words a moment before impatiently unfolding the scrap. Inside a pressed white flower lay, a few days old and battered, pressed flat to show the browning petals but both eyes were on the ink painted on the scrap of cloth. There, the black paint spidering across the fibres of it, messy and spotted with spilt ink was that knot. Hedda’s knot. _Man, Woman, Connection. Strength, Protection, Connection._ “I come with word from your daughter.”

“Is she well?” Aragorn demanded, the same words falling from the golden king's lips, the two stepped forward so sharply that the rider looked to Aragorn with some surprise. _He wonders who I am, who I am to ask after her so desperately._

“She is growing stronger, my lords,” he said, his brows low as if he hid something from them. _And such strange words, when was she anything but strong?_ “You are him, forgive me my lord, you’re her king,” he said at last, bowing his head again so low Aragorn felt a stab of discomfort to be treated so. He was glad the rider continued on, words tumbling from his lips quickly, explaining the situation as well as he could. “The steward is mad, My Lords, he could not be reasoned with, nor fought. And in his failure she… she has become the new power in the city while we await your return,”

“She’s raising a rebellion?” The king said, his eyebrows raising so sharply, cheeks ruddy with surprise where Aragorn had to hide the small smile growing on his lips. _Give it to her, she has won it as she deserves_. He felt Theoden’s eyes on him, and Aragorn wondered if he thought he would deny her it. In all his days he knew she could be as great a ruler as he, and here, with the knowledge that she was yet free and strong he thought of a possibility he’d denied himself in every waking hour since she’d left. That Gondor would not be his, nor hers, but theirs, side by side as he had wished a world away on the plains of the golden hall.

“She is stopping a riot. With so much uncertainty in the city, there are groups that would see it sacked from within to punish Denethor. We are evacuating, gathering provisions so that they may leave and go south toward the mountains, for those that stay we are finding shelter in the emptied halls. We hope it will keep splinter groups from forming. If you will my lords I must return swiftly, I must know your numbers and when you can to aid us, the city will fall without Rohan’s aid and with so little time -“

“We will give you what you need to return to your charge, but we must know what occurred, this is not what she went to the city to do,” Theoden interrupted him, finally gesturing for him to sit beside the table within his tent, pouring him a heady glass of rich red to stave off his nerves and exhaustion. The rider fell into the seat and drank deep before continuing, laying the cloth open on the table.

“Forgive me my lords,” he fumbled again, raising a hand to his sweaty forehead and pushing back his pale hair. When he spoke his words were clearer, quick with impatience and too many stories he needed to get out. “She bid me tell you that no arrangement could be reached amicably, that she worked to make peace with the steward before she found him unwilling and unworthy. She bid me _not_ to tell you that the steward imprisoned her beneath the city for that failure, but you should know his crimes. The people's faith in him is gone and word says he may not have the strength to muster his army to guard us when the battle comes and his son is gone to Osgiliath with 300 men, few think they will return. If that passes the Núrthan will install her into power to steward us whether she wills it or not. They have no-one else, my lords, and they are desperate.”

“How many are you in this peoples army?” Aragorn asked, understanding the elvish and fighting another smile to hear it. Another name, aye, but this one was her causes as much as her own. _Another crown she’d wrought herself,_ he thought wryly, _another crown she did not want but so deserved._

“Our numbers are unclear and grow day by day, some are warriors, guards, civilians, the weak and sick but we number thousands that know her name and would follow her.” He said, his voice, his devotion so clear and obvious as he swallowed down a mouthful of wine. “And she follows you,” he said quickly as if he feared Aragorn would be angered to know the change within the city or angered to know so many stood behind her.

“How was she imprisoned? How did this start? Why are the people following her so?” Theoden interjected, his brow still low. It was foolish to waste precious time speaking of things that might seem so inconsequential to their war, but both needed to know. They’d waited too long for word.

“With small things I think, my lords, she wore Rohan’s colours and flag when she entered the city, she took a strike meant for a servant, a white flower grew on a dead tree, a spark lit the beacons and the city from root to tip went mad,” he said, exhaling a short laugh. Aragorn smiled shortly to himself, his hand going to that horsehair bracelet once more, covering it with his palm as word turned to their march, to their numbers and to Gondor's defences. He could only offer so much into the army of Gondor’s plans, but they learned much about their men, the attacks at Osgiliath, Faramir’s whereabouts and the likelihood that he would not return. To have mere knowledge was good enough to allow them to plan their own attack, and they felt renewed for it.

When their plans were drawn and the sun had begun to dip beneath the horizon he sought Eomer under Theoden’s command. Theoden was holding his own meetings with commanders from the further cities and villages with their own men and their own arguments, and he was better served to regale their new information to Eomer and Eowyn, the three brushing down their horses together to give some peace from the armies around them. Eomer was subdued, thoughtful at the events that had turned so and cataloguing the losses they were so likely to sustain with the steward so embittered. but Eomer did not hold the same lightness in his eyes, shoulders bowed and heavy as he spoke of the Núrthan.

“She could reach no agreement that was not outright rebellion in your own city?” He said, his lights brows furrowed so heavily, and Aragorn realised at last that his expression was not angered but guarded. “This is foolishness, _madness_ , tell this rider she has to stop, to leave that wretched place,"

“It is no _rebellion_ , Eomer,” Eowyn replied, her voice sharp and eyes light with news of her cos. “She protects the city the way Uncle did his own. she will not run from it.” she snapped passionately, her brush coming faster on her horses flank and unsettling the beast. Aragorn reached out a hand, stroking her mares mane slowly to calm her in case she kicked at the tension that hung between them all. he could near feel the misted mountain breathing down on them, filling Eomer with uncertainty and Eowyn with righteous anger. “Perhaps you think she, like Merry and I should remain in the realms of marriage and warm beds,” she said, stepping away from her mare, anger still vibrating within her, the joy of news embittered by Eomer’s disbelief and his prejudice. Aragorn’s eyes widened gently, certain that words had already been shared between the siblings that had lit a flame within Eowyn to fight.

“And if she takes the city?” He thundered, throwing down his own brush. Aragorn stepped between the golden-haired pair, laying a hand at the soldier's chest to still him. ”If she takes the city from beneath its rightful king will she be hanged? Will another war start to separate her from it?” Aragorn's eyes snapped toward him, his brows pulled low and he pushed him a step back sharply. He had little relationship with the prince, only polite words and battle plans but he knew the lord's temper well enough. even still his anger was unprecedented, but he supposed he was thinking tactically. Were Aragorn a different man, perhaps Hedda would be in danger from him and Eomer was right to fear it. There was still so much they didn’t know, so many battles they had to fight before they saw an end. When Eomer spoke again his eyes met Aragorn’s with some accusation, and he knew it was the same protection he laid on his sister reflected there. “Will she be in more danger than all of us without even a sword in hand when you reach the city, _King_?”

He heard Eowyn scoff. To her, it was laughable, was Eomer so blind?

“Eomer, I would not harm her if she crowned herself queen of the white city or the rubble it may be when this battle ends, Eomer,” he said at last, his voice harsh and his green eyes honest and fixed. “You know well that she would not crown herself in Rohan when it was offered her, what makes you think she _wants_ the white city? What makes you think I would not _give_ it to her if she would have it?” When he spoke it was too fast, his voice turning to anger, too loud and too honest, his affection raw and deep and he knew he had said too much. A world away in Rohan he had thought of it, in a dappled stable he had wanted to speak those words but he had known she’d not accept them.

Eomer stared, his eyes wide as he laid a hand gently down on Aragorn’s shoulder. Behind them Eowyn spoke, her voice gentle, quiet and it seemed strange after the harsh words they had laid on each other. She stepped forward, laying a calm hand on each of their shoulders. Her own anger it seemed was quelled to know where their own had risen from. Eomer did not diminish his cos, only seek to shield her when she did not need it, it was the same as his ill content with Eowyn among their camp.

“You are foolish, brother,” she said, and Aragorn could hear the smile in her face, “to think this way. It is gallant that you would see her protected but she will survive this. As will we all.” She said gently, dipping her head and moving away with a sweep of her riding cloak. Eomer swallowed, looking to the ground, toeing it with his boots as Aragorn dropped his hand.

“Forgive me my words,” he said at last, meeting his eye and Aragorn flexed his fingers gently. “i had thought - I had thought with the truth of her blood known that what was between you would die when this war was done. That it would die by your hand.” He said, his voice low. Beside them their horses, half groomed and abandoned whinnied and Aragorn retrieved his brush, moving back to Breggo and stroking his left through the beasts rough hair. Eomer mirrored his action, the air around them still uncomfortable.

“Not by my hand. Not if I could bring her happiness in Gondor,” he said, at last, his voice quiet. It was that hope again, shining, that path that lead toward the white city lined with his kin and protected by his heart. A converging path, he thought, a small smile curving his lips though he could feel his own lips lift.

“Do you know what it means?” Eomer said at last. His jaw flexed and when Aragorn looked up he saw his chin dip toward that braid that all of Rohan had carefully not mentioned. His brow furrowed, certain there must be some reason none had spoken of it before, and why Eomer thought to speak of it now.

Aragorn’s mouth opened, looking from Rohan’s son to the bracelet at his wrist for a long moment, hooking one finger beneath the band of it to let the silver links running through it wink in the fading sunlight, his fingers running through Breggo’s mane slowly, lazily calming the beast. “Protection, speed, connection,” he said, voice quiet, tracing the loops he knew near better than his own skin. Too many days watching the mountains he’d spent following it with his bruised fingertips, the shining horsehair stained with orc blood and sweat had darkened, but it was as strong as ever it had been. The soldier smiled, looking to the ground as if he were hiding some secret. “She called it a spell.”

“An old sort of magic I suppose,” the horse lord said, his brows raised. “Not one even the most casual witch gives lightly and why i feared her affection may be deeper than your own,” he said with some deep sigh, his brush still working the sweat from his own mounts back. “Warriors do not give them to other warriors, bad luck they say. Binding in blood when you should be knotting in peace,”

“I’ve found it’s brought me luck in the battles of late,” he remarked, unhanding Breggos mane to stroke over the nose of Eomer's mount. He was glad for the tension relieved between them, the sun setting quickly on their last day at the encampment.

“Aye, you may be right. You and all your company had good fortune at Helms Deep,” he agreed, avoiding the very subject he had brought up, and Aragorn shifted the hair band at his wrist to draw his eye to it once more.

“Connection. It means a great many things, My Lord; when braided by wife or family it holds the safety of hearth and home while he is away at war. A tether to bring him home, I suppose, and a light to warm him while he is gone,” he spoke thoughtfully, thinking of an old, bygone history he’d not seen on many other wrists in this camp or another. “A warrior wouldn’t knot connection in unless she meant to bind your fight together, to bind your lives together. In war rank changes, men retire, friends die. So many things that could end a spell wrought to bind… That is why it is bad luck.”

Aragorn said nothing, his eyes tracing the oily spray of hair, waxed to shine even still. Did Eomer think to fill his head with superstition and ghost stories? It would not work, not when a gift from her shone on his wrist, not when he’d worn it at Helms Deep and found his way into her arms. Not when he wore it now and would find his way back to her again.

“My cos… she does not share as easily as my sister, I have known her little, I know she is grown but any can see that while she may speak her mind - loudly - she does not idly speak her heart,” Eomer said, at last, meeting his eyes though Aragorn knew the subject discomforted him. Aragorn thought to speak but he had no need to deny the luck he had found in Rohan, the protection that had been awarded him and the strength he needed. now would he deny the connection between them. “I do not think she would make that spell if she meant to let what was between you die by her hand either.”

His words reverberated through him, eyes returning to that knot again and again as he bid the prince goodbye and the horse lord gripped his wrist tightly. Eomer’s fears may have had merit, perhaps Aragorn's did as well, but to hear them assured within one day was cause enough, even beneath the mist of the mountain, to await good dreams when they slept. She’d not given him a promise, but he’d worn one on his wrist even still.

When Amsden woke he left swiftly. He’d slept a few hours in Aragorn’s tent, ate heartily and gathered more supplies for his journey on a fresh horse, but he’d not stay away from the city longer than he must, not with word Hedda needed and hope to offer the people he served. Aragorn walked him to the edge of the encampment, a cloth of his own folded in his palm knotted around a treasure more precious than the young soldier had likely ever held and one Aragorn did not hold in half as high esteem as the treasure at his wrist. his finger felt strangly empty without the Ring of Barahir there upon it, but it was the most physical promise he could offer her from so far away. Amsden left in a cloud of dry earth and quick hooves, cape flying behind him and word within him and Aragorn watched him go into the night.

In the distance an elvish horn sounded and his head snapped up, certain some greater rider was coming. He went to Theoden’s tent once more, and there stood Elrond cloaked and hooded and carrying a sword near as ancient as him.

When he drew Narsil’s blade from its sheath it sang, and he knew where his own army lay slumbering. Hedda’s people were alive, lowly and young, his own were ancient and dead, built on honour and blood but he’d raise them, demand it of them. He would not fail his city now. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think Aragorn's had to deal with a Rohan royal in a lot of his chapters, but it does make sense to me that they're worried he might shame or judge her when he becomes a king and they doubt he'll have the means or will to stay with her. I really hope my further explanation of the bracelet makes sense to all of you, again I'm making up Eorling history and culture which it turns out I like doing, but this entire time he'd basically been wearing a promise on his wrist from her and they doubt whether or not he wants the same. 
> 
> Thanks for all the comments and kudos, please keep them coming I love to hear what you think of this all!


	35. Chapter 35

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _We were noble like knights, we were lucent like light  
>  We were taller than towers in one another's eyes  
> We were taller than towers then  
> So much taller than towers then  
> I was taller than a tower in your eyes and now I'm not afraid _  
> \- Towers, Gretta Ray

“And I told you _no_!” She snapped, her face red with exertion and irritation. She was tired of this argument, every night the sellsword, pock-faced Ghad and the three that stood with him came afresh to petition the same thing and get the same response to take her from more important business. She was tired of it, tired of _them_ as they pushed and pushed. “What right do you have to execute the steward?” She spat, their plans, faulted and foolish as they were, were taking shape it seemed, no matter how she denied them. 

 

“ _We_ have none!” Ghad spoke up, spit gleaming on his lip and the smell of ale heavy around him. Hedda wondered constantly if he only fought her because he wanted the fight, a feeling she was well used to and well used to suppressing at every opportunity these days. “ _You_ , however -“ 

 

“ _I_ have no right to the steward's seat, and I will not begin a rebellion to sate _your_ thirst for blood. The steward will fall lawfully, punished by a jury for his crimes when the king returns,” she said again, they knew this already, knew politically how it would look for a spurned and foreign princess to murder the rightful steward and take his place. Why did they not _see_ the war it would rage in the city and outside it? If she stole that seat any left loyal to Denethor would turn on her and Rohan and perhaps even Aragorn. "Until then we need him," 

 

“And what if he does not return?” Ghad’s second, a bulky, bald fool, snapped, his teeth bared. “If Denethor even fights the attack, if our city even survives it, we will have no-one to depose him. That is why _you_ must while he is weak, his son is beyond the gates, there _is_ no one else.” 

 

“The king will come,” she snapped, teeth bared at the constant, niggling concern that Aragorn would yet shirk his duty. She believed in him, but she knew his fears, knew how little he longed for this throne. No matter what she said, would he take it when the city needed him? She steadied her breathing, her hands curling into fists as she tried to keep herself calm. “We must wait for him. If the steward dies and you seat me on a throne I am not owed by rights the coming battle will have no true leader, there will be opposition, the cities forces unorganised and revolting! Why do you not _see_ this?” It was so clear, so undeniable and foolish of them. It was no simply that she did not want a throne, could not lead a city, it was that a city of hundreds of thousands would not follow her, and they must be united, even under a tyrant. 

 

“You hold faith with the steward yet!” Ghad growled, slamming down his flagon and attracting eyes in their corner of The Star. that was a greater insilt yet, to thin that she sided with the worm and believed falsely that Aragorn would return. 

 

“The steward can hang - when there is a real leader to relieve him!” She snapped, slamming her own palm down, her attempts to stem her aggression failing her at last. “I hold faith that he would not burn down his own city while he still holds it!” She shouted, breathing heavily, shifting in her step to stand and tower above her infuriating group. “Enough of this, enough of you and your plotting. You want me to lead and I _am_ leading.  Núrthan  they call me and mine, the _Shield_ of the people. The _shield_ \- not the sword and not the queen above them. Now leave this tavern, return to your posts and I will not have another word of this,” she did not await their answers, did not care for the rage on their faces of the humiliation she’d laid at their feet for every man in the tavern to hear. That was foolish. 

* * *

“How many made it out?” Hedda asked at first light, a scarf was thrown over her shoulders and hair as she sat at The Stars counter. She’d called for the passage south to still yesterday, fearing that if any more left the city there was no certainty of safety, but she had nowhere near the time, organisation or freedom to oversee it herself, the task falling to those she elected.

 

Ior eyed her disapprovingly, she’d been against Hedda leaving the safety of the cellar in daylight, but there wasn’t much she could do, sitting on the rickety stools beside her and eyeing every man in the pub, even though most were known to them. “More than five and a half hundred civilians are on their way,” She was glad for the woman, whose skill as a secretary was unparalleled, and it was her that lead the organisation of the exodus alongside a number of otherwise men and women. “With them are fifty armed men and women sworn to protect them. The guards on our side are stocking the houses of the dead under cover of night with the remaining supplies,” 

 

“Good, tonight the entire guard shift at the houses are with us, double the supply line while we can do so without being seen,” she noted, shuffling through the stacks of parchment at her hands and making a note of that demand, already sifting through the loyal faces that would do the work as Ior nodded, agreeing quickly. She felt harried, sweat beading her brow in the murky light of the back alley pub she’d made her home, seeking out a fresh list of names made up of those that had pledged to protect within the city. She was quiet a long moment, the list in hand, circles for those within the city, dashes for those that had left, and x’s for those that had pledged and now were nowhere to be found. Ghad’s name was underlined, a reminder not to forget the threat he posed once he had stopped petitioning her in the pub, his post abandoned and his house empty. She was glad for silence, but in her anger she may have stoked a flame within him. 

 

“Ghad and the twenty have not been found, have they?” she said, her voice gentle, a strain of anger she was working hard not to allow to shine through, her eyes tracing the familiar names, some that had slipped away a week past, others joining them day by day when their homes were empty and their fighting voices were unheard of again. 

 

“Still unaccounted for,” Ior spoke, her voice as small as their eyes finally met, there was uncertainty, worry in there as well. “With six more missing that were… Opposed to the peace.” 

 

“He’s built a rebellion,” Hedda asserted, swallowing, scowling at the idea. Their party was small, twenty-six that had found her cause lacking but with the right connections, the right wisdom and a sharp sword the city could topple. She thought back to her meetings, one in a hundred men calling for blood and battle when she demanded food, shelter and safety. She cursed sharply, running a hand through her hair. “There is nothing we can do until they surface and our fighters in the walls still triple theirs. Keep ears out for word, they may not act, or may not act wisely enough to succeed.” Ior nodded again, still clearly as uncertain about the small splinter group stirring within their own. “Come, tell me of the houses of healing, I can’t bear not being able to act on the street myself, I need to live this uprising through your eyes,” she said, trying to put a smile on her lips to lift Ior up. 

 

They’d sent word to the houses of healing, unable to go herself but when her messenger returned she found the healers knew already who had sent them. They had staff enough for a city, but not a war, and she quickly gathered thirty willing travellers, maids and house nurses with experience that could assist those with more skill and lighten the burden. They could not assist in surgery or complicated healing, but they could clean and bandage wounds, gather supplies, offer comfort, move the dead when called for. They were dotted about the city, some hiding in the halls they’d once served, all waiting for the horns of war to sound to make their move toward the houses and offer their aid. It was a lighter plan than speaking of fighters, blood and rebellion, to think of healing was kinder and it warmed them both a little, sipping ale in the pub as if they were old friends after a hard days work. 

 

Light as words could be both still kept their faces hidden, Hedda shifted in her seat each time another customer moved, they might be trying to lighten their hearts, but they could not be foolish, the Star had been raided once already. As the door slammed open instinctively she tensed, one hand on the blade of her knife, hidden beneath her cloak, ready to draw, ready to fight. Gods she near hoped for it sometimes, pitiful as that was. Maybe Ghad had come, his people and his anger ready to cast her down for denying them their war. She felt like Eowyn, waiting for the thrill and glory of blood instead of the politics she’d wandered into. When the two women turned, heads snapping up Ior squealed so loudly Hedda cringed, but it brought a smile to her face to see the man striding toward them. Amsden was dusty from the road, his brow furrowed and tired and his armour dull, but his smile was brilliant, catching his betrothed up in a kiss that Hedda would not deny them, waiting until they parted before smiling gently at the soldier that had abandoned his post for her and Ior. 

 

“My Núrthan, I have word,” She went to him, standing slowly to and offering him a seat at the bar, moving around it to fill up a tankard for him, seeing exhaustion heavy in him as he sat next to the maid, their hands still clasped. She was aching to ask so many things, were she a better commander she would ask of numbers, of the strength of her family, but all that came to mind first was Aragorn, asking after him in a low voice. 

 

“Your king bid me give you this,” he said, his voice low and she wondered what he knew, what her distant king had told him of her and what Amsden had said to him. Her position was precarious, it would be all too easy for her to take the city that was rightly his, even if she’d not do it, it would be all too easy for the rebellion she’d breathed life into to take it from both of them or tear it down completely. She wondered if the man she cared for would resent her for it. It was a foolish thought, last she’d known him he’d not wanted it either, but duty was between them again, whether he wanted it or not: it was his. Amsden pressed a wrapped package into her hand, and when she unfurled the cotton keeping it she stared. 

 

Within her palm, cradled in cloth sat a ring, stately and strange it displayed a twisting serpent, eyes glittering green. She held it in her palm, watching it glitter in the candlelight and knew it was the ring she had seen every day on his index finger. She didn’t know what it meant, what he meant for her to read Into the gleaming, ancient looking ring, but she took it at least as a symbol he did not abandon her lightly. That he would come. She folded her fingers around the metal tightly, not willing to let it go. 

 

It warmed her heart, it made her work harder. He was coming. 

 

* * *

She was sleeping when her call came, shaken from her bed so abruptly she drew her knife without thought, gasping for air amid the shock of it until she saw the innkeeper’s face above her, fearful and frightened and a few paces away from the shining blade. “My lord Faramir has returned wounded to the city, My Lady,” she breathed, their own hearts likely racing together as Hedda stood, pulling on her rough tunic and leggings on, yanking them up. “He was all that escaped at Osgiliath and the guards are saying he’s dying if not dead. My Lady - behind him comes an army.” Her voice shook and Hedda reached out a hand, laying it on her shoulder to soothe the fear in her voice.

 

“Then it’s time we begin,” Hedda nodded sharply, kneading her free palm into her eyes to alleviate the tiredness of her sleep. “How many are already situated at the house of the dead? The messengers must move in their districts to lead those that still remain.” 

 

“Three hundred are within, the remaining guards are outside to help move the rest as they come. With daylight here we will be spotted,” she worried her lip and Hedda smiled gently to reassure her, laying her tunic sharply and belting her sword at her waist. 

 

“It matters not. Their eyes will be focused beyond the gate, not the city streets, and it is too late for even the steward to oppose his people finding safety.” She spoke kindly, running a hand through her hair to push it back. At last, she could go out. Her own place was with the guards at the houses of the dead to ferry the people to safety and when the war came it was within, keeping the peace, soothing those that, for reasons she did not fully understand, looked to her. 

 

“My Lady there’s something else,” the innkeeper gasped, panic still lancing through her features as Hedda tried to prepare her mind for sorting rations and counting refugees, “Ghad was seen on horseback, making for the citadel with a slew of men behind him,” 

 

Hedda stilled, staring at the innkeeper and hoping she'd imagined the words. _Stars_ this complicated things, her place and her plans, so well organised fit to fall because of six and twenty men. Her head spun, her fingernails digging sharply into her palms as she drew breath. A curse slipped through her lips as another problem arose, another war, another army, it seemed she was not meant to have an end to this. Ghad and his people were too wise to think that she would not hear of him as he raced through the streets, he may well have shouted her name as he left. She was being invited to his battle. 

 

“I have to stop him,” She breathed, trying to stay calm as she crossed the basement, reaching for her stolen armour. It was a guards plate, the same standard as any knight that guarded the steward and it was the plate that would get her inside the citadel. she had hoped not to need it, but if the stars were good, the plate would protect her from all that lay within it. 

 

“This rebellion’s as like to burn the city down as Ghad’s men are.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment my darlings, sorry this took so long I've accidentally wandered into war too much plot and maths.


	36. Chapter 36

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _You made me run like I'd never run_
> 
> _Try like I'd never tried_
> 
> _Fight like I'd never fought_
> 
> _Made me want it_
> 
> \- Little Giant, Roo Panes

Her brow was beaded with sweat when she entered the citadel through the serving gate, her armour foreign, ill fitting and heavy on her back. Beneath her Amsden’s horse strained beneath the weight of two armoured fighters and an ascent too steep and fast but all too necessary. Her eyes were fixed ahead and up, glancing toward the white towers and green courtyards and expecting with every passing moment that the steward would be hung over it’s white stones. The image was rife because she’d seen it, in that vile seeing stone she’d seen her own body broken and swinging from the citadel courtyard, and in her heart she knew the steward would have done it. Gods if she had her way she’d let Ghad do it, slow the horse and turn to safety. But she drove the stallion beneath her harder still. 

 

Their entrance to the citadel was not grand or weighted, her last look to the land beyond this wretched city could not hide the shadow of an army beyond. They were a stain on the dry land, indistinct but massive and it stilled her breath. But she could not contend with the army outside before she dealt with those within. The hooves of her horse clattered on the stone slope, leading she and Amsden higher and higher, toward the great entrance with it’s emerald grass and snarled tree, following the path of a dead man dragged behind his horse and the bitter grouping that had forced her to follow. She was not far behind them, she was sure, woken and dressed in her stolen armour before any horn had yet to sound or any activity seemed to spark within the city. 

 

From her journey to the city astride Amsden’s horse they’d come across hundreds, fearful, frightened men women and children cutting a path through the city. Some looked ready to scream, to run, to stampede, but they were strictly organised into groups, the groups with a guide and the guide with a weapon to keep the peace. From what she had seen it was working, and she was glad this at least, seemed to be going right as they made their way to the stone keep. Amsden had demanded she bring more men, that the two of them against the suspected near thirty splinters would be cut down in a moment, but Hedda had denied him, unwilling to take so many away from the protection of the people. It would be worth nothing to win in the white tower and lose the people in the houses of the dead. 

 

Truth be told she had some certainty she might be able to stem the splinter group with the right words, the right lies, from all their intelligence they didn’t want her dead, they wanted her in power, and cutting her down would not achieve that. As they unhorsed, however, she kept her palm on the pommel of her sword, her eyes slitted and nervous through the visor of her helm. Two guards from the lower rings, come to deliver news to the steward, that was all they were if they were asked, that was all they were until they had cause to reveal themselves. 

 

“He’ll command from the courtyard if he commands, we must start there,” Hedda breathed, the sound echoing in the unfamiliar metal that made her feel claustrophobic and trapped. None the less she hurried, her heavy metal greaves sounding on their path toward the grand courtyard as they rounded the last steps and it came into view. 

 

The white tree, gods in all this she’d near forgotten the dead thing. In her dreams it had been wreathed in green leaves and white blossoms but it stood tall, still dead and dry like a grave marker. Beneath it, curled and weak was a pile of dark furs, crying out. She held up her hand, stilling Amsden as they took in the scene, half hidden in the shadows of the entrance. It was a fair distance but even from there she could hear Denethor whimper and cry, cursing high heaven over the body of his son, surrounded by his soldiers. She did not signal for them to move, her own breath heavy beneath her breast plate and she felt cruel. What right did the steward have to mourn the son he’d marked for death? A scowl curled her lips, seeing the quieter brother lie limp and pale beneath his hands. Like so many, he had deserved so much more than this broken, whimpering man. To see Faramir so made her only think of Boromir’s passing, bloody and violent as it had been and in the service of Denethor and his city as well. To think he deserved to command the city, to lead more to death was a slight, but it was their best chance. 

 

“Nurthan!” Amsden hissed behind her, gesturing to the far horizon and the orc horde beyond. They made their attack, catapults flung and rocks falling from the sky, small as they were the first act of war had gone unnoticed by both she and Denethor. More rain came, heavier stone and beneath them the stone quaked, those missiles that hit their mark crumbling the stone. She did not answer him, her eyes flitting desperately from the assault below to the crumbling man before, willing him to stand, to fight, to do _anything_. 

 

“Stars Old Man, stand your ground,” she bit out, speaking to the distant man, too far away to be heard him, too far away to even truly see him shrouded by his guards and the circle of men too close and too still. “Ready your forces,” she begged of him, her eyes flicking about the courtyard, surrounded as it was by guards there was no way to tell if Ghad’s men were situated afar with arrows, with poison, with a knife to the back out here or inside. “Fight damn you!” She snapped, her voice too loud but it drew no eye. Stars if he would only order his men to arms he might well save himself alongside his city. 

 

He stood slowly at last, his steps stumbling and foolish, his voice a wail that carried on the breeze and her eyes followed him as he near fell toward the far edge of the courtayrd, overlooking the dark shadow of the horde, raining stones down on his kingdom. “My line has ended!” He screamed, clinging the the white stone ringing the courtyard. Did he even see the army beyond? Did he see anything beyond his own grief? Her eyes darted about the courtyard, taking in the gathered guards, their steps echoing on the stone as they left Faramir on his pallet and their perimeter at the gates and the white tree. A small figure fell beside Faramir - too small to be anyone but Pippin, kneeling beside the fallen lord. Gods if she survived this she’d be glad to see him again. But she had no time to think of Pippin, nor even the flash of white that could only be Gandalf, taking in the scene and doing nothing. He was a wizard, he had magic and power, he could take the city if he could not make Denethor see sense, he would be followed, but yet he did nothing. Her teeth clenched, turning her eyes away to the guards. They moved, walking in uncertain steps and her eyes widened. _No_. 

 

She cursed bitterly, thinking herself a fool as she snatched the horses reins. The guards were not meant to leave their stations, not to comfort a crying steward, not to protect him, their mere bearing betraying them, crooked backed, armour ill-fitting. That was not Denethor’s guard. With a heavy swing she mounted the horse, kicking it’s sides until she flew across the white stone, rearing in their path until they fell back, ungainly in unfamiliar armour and spooked by a heavy warhorse. 

 

Denethor noticed nothing, though she was mere feet away, his bitter mumblings speaking of betrayal, of failure, of his damned line as she unhorsed. Her blade flashed in the sunlight, her stance wide and strong, ready to fight even as the fool behind her screamed the very thing she’d dreaded of him. 

 

"Abandon your posts! Flee! Flee for you lives!” He cried to his citizens, to his army, turning at last to see the lone soldier guarding him while a pack advanced. Twenty she guessed, their swords drawn but some used cruder weapons, axes and bows and picks unbefitting of the citadels guards but deadly in the hands of Ghad’s men. His guard had not brought the steward his son, but a rebellion only waited to see him break. 

 

“Be quiet Old Man!” She bellowed, her sword raised threateningly, jabbing the point forward to push them back. “Ghad? Are you among these turncloaks? These _assassins_?” There was silence, overwhelming on the courtyard but beyond she could hear the city guard shouting for orders, unwilling to flee, she could hear the fall of rocks, the city shaking as ancient rock crumbled under the assault. At last, a man on the left stepped forward, a heavy sword loose in hand as he tugged off his helm. Ah, there was the pock faced sell sword that had brought such anarchy. 

 

“You protect this _weasel_ , Girl? You protect him with your sword and your life? Ha! Tell me Girl, you hold your sword but have you ever even swung it?” He spoke bitterly, spitting as he finished his point and baring broken teeth. With slow movement she reached for her own helm, tugging off the shimmering metal and letting it fall, her red gold hair knotted beneath. She had no shield, no protection and she drew her knife in her other hand, the blades flashing together dangerously. Her expression was cold, eyes fixed on Ghad. Even with her back turned the steward seemed to finally have turned his attention to the fight for his life. 

 

“My daughter!” He shrieked, spittle gleaming at his lips and his expression animal. Daughter? It seemed in such danger he had forgotten his disavowal of her name and house, it seemed in the light of real danger his death wish was took pause. “My son - my son -“ he gasped, and behind her, it sounded as though he were weeping. 

 

“Quiet! Were it my choice I’d cut out your heart myself for your cowardice, Old Man!” She shouted, her chest heaving beneath her heavy plate. She did not turn to look at him, taking a step forward but Ghad gave no ground and she was sorely outnumbered, more than half the guard on his side and the other half terrified, confused, not certain whose side was right anymore. She could not ascertain who had the higher ground here, but she was certain it was not here, even as every armoured man stood still before her. “Were it yours you’d see him dead - were it his he’d throw us all off the rock and be glad for the blood he spilled!” She roared, “But that is not justice! Those are the actions of powerful men Aye, but those are the actions of _fools_! Denethor’s crimes are many and his punishments will be many, but they will not be by your hand!” 

 

“While he lives he murders his city! While he lives his _weakness_ lives!” Ghad hissed, his small army behind him joining In his words, spitting abuses toward the steward. She half expected the old man to reply, to fight them but he howled, crying the names of his fallen sons in agony. “Kill him and his armies have none to follow but you!” He bit out, offering her everything as if she were fool enough to take it. All her words and he did not yet understand that this throne was not hers, this army, this city did not belong to her and she was not fit to lead it. She chanced her gaze to Gandalf again, hoping against hope he’d make claim himself but he watched her from behind the line of soldiers, his blue eyes steady on her own. She could not, would not lead it, she could not be the reason Aragon’s city fell before he could claim it, she could not be the reason the worlds of men splintered and fought - not again. She felt cornered, animal, a stallion penned in again with the whole world at her feet. 

 

“Why do you want _this_?” She screamed, her anger over taking her and unable to quell it. Her shoulders heaved, face red beneath her armour and sword hefted to fend off a likely blow and Ghad, the pockmarked man took a step forward, sword still in hand but lowered. “Your king is coming! The white tree is blooming and you will have your peace! I _cannot_ give it to you!” 

 

“The white tree rotted and _died_ beneath the king and his forebears recency!” Ghad returned, his sword loose in his fingers, “My family starved and fought and died for _him_!” He spat, his face blistering red and his muscles contracting beneath his gleaming and stolen armour, the memory bringing strength and fight back into his bones and she flinched, ready to parry any blow he might attempt - but she heard his words. “I have not seen some king and aye - I’ve seen the white flowers and heard the stories but all I’ve seen with my eyes is you! You came to the city and the tree bloomed and the people were ready to fight again - and you’d _deny_ us?” He shouted, voice raising to a quivering high and his sword slashing, ungainly toward her. Her hands shot out, smacking away his sword with an unfocused hit that reverberated up her arm. She swung hard in retaliation, turning to lay one hard hit across his chest plate and force him back a pace from the cowering steward. He snarled, loud and high like a scream, throwing up his blade to catch her legs but she dodged the heft of his blade, casting out her armoured left hand and laying a heavy blow across his plated shoulder and are cheek, blood erupting from his already broken nose as it cracked against her gauntlet. 

 

Barely an arms length of space yet between them as he lifted his sword high, swinging it down in a brutal arc that she caught with the flat of her blade. Metal crashed, making her ears ring and though he was stronger she held it, two sword edges inches away from their unharmed faces. Her arms screamed against the weight of holding him, and she breathed out her words at last through gritted teeth, still so unsure why this stranger fought, ready to suffer treason and die to see a stranger high above his city. “And if _I_ command this city? If I command _you_ what _difference_ does it _make_?” She snarled. She had no right, no claim, she’d be as lost as Denethor. 

 

“Then I will be commanded by a leader I have _seen_!” He bit out, the effort between them heavy and wrought, sweat beading on her brow as she met his gaze. She expected a light there, she supposed, or the rage of tavern men slighted or merely blood hunger. The moment lasted an age between them when she saw nothing like it, his expression fearful and tired. Tired of fighting, tired of struggling - like her, he wanted to see his final battle done and finished and his people better for it. He, like her and her fellowship, fought battle after battle hoping this one would be the last they need raise sword for. She had asked starving, hungry men to wait but this man and so many more had been waiting all their lives for their king. 

 

She raised one hand, her palm forward and fingers unfurled in peace. His eyes darted toward it and the pressure between them faltered, their crossed swords lowered slowly, singing as they dropped. Their gazes did not stray and she held him with her eyes, no attention laid on his other men, quiet as they were. This was what they had wanted in the taverns in those lower rings, to see her command their city above their fallen, faltering steward and she’d denied them what they asked. She could not deny them any longer. She may not heal them, but a bandage was better than salt in a bleeding wound. 

 

Her sword still in hand but looser, ready for another blow but not expecting it, her palm still raised. “Then I command you to lower your blades,” she said, fighting to keep her breathless voice steady. Ghad hesitated a moment, uncertainty clear on his features. Her heart could have stopped, eyes widening, but he did, casting away his steel. The metal clattered across the white stones. Blood dripped, steady and striking down his face and spilling over his armour, his eyes wet, as cornered as she was. 

 

“My daughter we must leave -“ Denethor’s drivel began behind her and she turned, feeling his fingers curling at her cloak, tugging her down or trying to raise himself up to run. Without thought, without kindness she drew back her hand, heavy with metal and swung it down. The action held more weight than any blow she’d ever laid, she thought, as her heavy palm knocked back his face and sent his sprawling over the white stones, quieting him finally. His eyes, those lifeless, teary eyes looked up at her, his lips moving soundlessly in shock. Her eyes stayed on the floor, head moving too fast and shock, pure, unbridled fear racing through her. But there was a certainty there as well. 

 

“Amsden!” She called out, not looking behind her, not seeing Ghad’s men part to let him through to join her at her side. “Take him to the cells, when the battle is done his fate will be decided.” She did not look upon him, turning once more to Ghad and his men as she wiped her brow. The ground shifted beneath her, another bitter reminder of the siege that righted her in reality. Too long they’d tarried in this courtyard, bickering in the sun while the orc horde laid siege to their city with their catapults. She spun on her toes toward Ghad’s men, expecting half to be up in arms again, to fight Amsden, to fight amongst themselves. But when she turned their weapons were laid down, kneeling on the white flagstones in their ill-fitting armour. Her mouth hung open at the scene, breath catching. She looked up, helpless and already weary of this, waiting for the jape, the murder, the laughter at the very idea, but none came. They were quiet, waiting to be commanded. Behind them Gandalf, distant and beside Faramir on his funeral litter with Pippin knelt beside the stewards son. They were speaking, their words quiet but, in her shock and silence the old man’s blue eyes found her. He inclined his head gently, not turning away from her or standing in thunder to deny the power she’d taken. 

 

She breathed in sharply, nodding to herself a moment. 

 

“Stand men, we’ve no time to bow when the wolves are at our door,” she called, her voice carrying over them and they complied, lifting their weapons again. They were ready. “Ghad - three men to the streets on horseback, lead any that remain to the higher rings where the walls are stronger and defended, I’ll not have you beside me after this, but you can yet prove your mens honour.” She tried to make her voice sound strong, her fingers fluttering on the pommel of her sword as Amsden forced Denethor from the scene, the steward quiet, shocked and limp. 

 

She took only a moment, breathing in through tight lungs on top of the world of men as Gandalf hurried to her side, his white robes billowing and laying his hand on her shoulder. In his other hand his sword was drawn. She swallowed, her throat sticking but she moved as another blow rained down on the city, the ancient seat crumbling - but she couldn’t let it fall. 

 

“Catapaults!” She cried, raising her sword high, bellowing her demand to the soldiers around her, those that followed her, those that did not know her, those that would see her dead, dethroned, risen up or cast down, it mattered not, not when the very sky around them was falling and the ancient rock beneath their feet was shaking, not with an army in their sights. These men needed a leader now, she’d not deny them it. _“Fall back to the walls, defend your posts, defend your city!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man this took such a long time, I hope it seems realistic, Ghad's motivation may seem a little off, but realistically with so long under a useless leader that has absolutely no respect or care for anyone but himself, I thought the bolder common people would be desperate for A: any leader that actually showed them precedence, and B: a leader they knew, had seen to be caring and brave and wise. Honestly the way this went it's near feudal democracy.
> 
> So close to the end - please please let me know what you think! Your reviews are the thing that gets me writing again.


	37. Chapter 37

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the ground we bury   
> _The seeds of a pear tree_  
>  And all the things we carried  
> Now we're down to our bare feet
> 
> _May I have this dance?_  
>  To make it up to you.   
> Can I say something crazy?   
> I love you. 
> 
> \- May I have this Dance, Meadowlark

 

Aragorn, bone tired, bloody and bruised remembered a distant, far off room away in Helms Deep. He remembered the misty sunlight through a high, slitted window and Hedda, undressed and stained with orc blood and her own, washing the blood and pain and war from her skin and his. He remembered a stolen day he'd had with her, curled in his arms in a sleep so deep and weary she'd not stirred, even when he had to look on her face. As he walked from the houses of healing on sapped strength and weak legs he thought of her, resplendent in soft leathers sitting on rocky outcrop half a world away, his pipe stolen from his grip and smokey rings falling from her lips. He thought of the freckles on her face and shoulders and back, remembering a new part of her with every aching step. In the midst of battle he could turn little thought to her, not with an army of ghosts behind him and an orc horde before, but in the gentle daylight, he could think of little else.

None in the houses of healing knew her fate, some said she was within the houses of the dead, keeping the peace for her people, a haven she'd carved out in the city for Gondor's people. But some in the street said she'd never come, that she'd promised she would - to sit with them and soothe them and help them as the rocks rained down on their city, but that she had never come. Some knew the name Idis, some knew the name Amsden had called her - Nurthan. Aragorn had seen the steward's son in the houses of healing, resting fitfully in a deep, wounded sleep, Aragorn knew him only by armour and the similarities to Boromir in his face. He had not woken, but Aragorn had heard a parched throat speaking Idis's name in the throes of a fever.

In the houses of healing he saw no sight of her, asking after her in name and description and though near everyone knew of her, they had not seen her for certain; only fleeting glimpses and guesses on their lips. Eomer and Eowyn beside him did not admonish him his questions, not when their father, bloody and broken as he was, shattered beneath his own horse clung to life beneath his hands and breathed slowly. The labour in his lungs lightened as his legs were splinted by a volunteer, his blue eyes hazy and unfocused as he called for Hedda, for Eomer, for Eowyn. He was comforted by his niece and nephew, Rohan's children coaxing him through Aragorn's healing until he calming him until sleeping herbs took effect. Aragorn would find his daughter's fate soon enough, he promised him before he slept.

A horse walked slowly by his side, the beast tired and weary of war as they climbed the steep pathways toward the citadel. He would find soon enough what had happened within, and it was enough to force him on, like a pull toward the white towers he'd fled all his life. They were met at the courtyard by a retinue of servants that bowed gently, not seeming as wearied as they. Gimli, Legolas and Eowyn and Eomer at his side and Kottr trailing paces behind but not losing sight of them. When they tilted their heads down in respect he could see the snarled branches of a tree, bone white and reaching toward the sky.

"My Lords," they sang, voices low and gentle and he swallowed dryly, his fingers twitching when they added, "Your Grace, we were asked to greet you." They led them through the hall of kings, offered them rooms, food, wine but Aragorn doubted that they were being led any such way, their path taking them deeper and up into the citadel. His words steady, he asked if Gandalf the Grey was within. He wasn't certain what name she held now if she was within, but he felt certain she would be with Gandalf. In the halls of his forebears, in this bloody mess of a city the very rock seemed ready to fall in around him. They were lead to the throne room and a steady stream of soldiers, generals and poorer looking fellows passed them in the halls, parchments and orders clear in their hands and hearts as they walked. There was a renewed strength in all of them, half in gleaming armour, some in ragged servants clothes

He pressed forward, his strides long as he rounded the last corner, his companions a few paces behind. The very walls above him seemed to lighten, the white stone lighter than air.

"Ior will you enlist the guards from the houses of the dead to go and bring the refugees back from the mountains? They will not wish to be long from home and work," a voice, strong and steady rang out as he reached the open doors of the throne room.

"Yes My Lady," a quiet voice came, followed by a shuffle of paper as at last, his steps speeding she came into view. A servant slipped past him, her eyes widened at the sight of them all but he didn't see her, his eyes affixed.

He stilled in the grand doorway and simply looked. Bathed in dappled sunlight, her golden red hair tangled beyond belief. She was bruised visibly, shadows carved beneath her eyes and a wound at her temple that had not been cleaned but valour - she looked alive. Her hands were on her hips, looking over a swath of maps and stacks of paper, slowly humming numbers to the guard by her side. He recognised Amsden from the encampment at Dunharrow, the rider she'd sent but his eyes slid past him quickly enough. At last, he took another step forward and her eyes raised, finally reaching him, her words stilled and mouth open just slightly.

"Hedda," he murmured, shocked by how still he was, shocked by the way not one person in the room seemed willing or able to break their gaze or shake them from it. He took a step toward her, his legs curiously clumsy beneath him. She mirrored him, stepping from her place at the head of the table, her hands falling slack by her sides. The next moment they were before one another, his hands bracketing her face and his lungs tight and he didn't care for any eye upon them, pulling her toward him. How many days, how long had he waited to see her again, how many fears, how many dreams had he had about this very moment and when it was before him he could hardly think. "Hedda," he breathed again, voice light, quiet, unwilling to stir even the air around them as he held her freckled cheeks between his calloused hands. Her eyes fluttered shut and she leaned toward him, leaned into him, her hands covering his own and he could feel the warm metal of his ring on her finger against his own. He laid his forehead against hers, her breathing as tight as his own and shared, warm between them.

"Aragorn," she breathed in return, their voices low as not to attract the ears of her assembled counsel. His eyes shut slowly as she moved her hands, slipping them around her waist to embrace him and he followed, curling his own limbs around her so tightly and certain he would not be parted from her again.

The shift of footfalls moved behind her, and he looked up to see Amsden, the flaxen haired rider with a kindly smile, muttering to Gandalf. The wizards white robes were ashen by war but smile not dampened as the two slipped from the room with the fellowship and Hedda's cousins, talk of food on their lips. She cleared her throat, a flush rising in her cheeks as she slowly pulled away, but her hands caught his wrist, fingers folding around his own bruised skin. When he looked down her could see his ring, the old thing that had held him, titled him for so long gleaming on her thumb.

"Did I see my cos and our fellowship behind you?" she breathed at last, her lips turning up into a smile and he met her, his own smile brilliant as they stood, locked together, his eyes tracing her face as if he feared she'd turn to dust before his very eyes.

"All are well. Your father is badly wounded but Shaka and her war healers treated him quickly enough to save his life. He may never walk again, but he asks for you,"

"And I take it Eowyn fought in the battle," she said, her voice gentle, gathering the facts she needed about her family. He had his peace to know she was well in the city, but she had been waiting just as long to know what had happened beyonds its gates.

"None would stop her, she brought down the witch king of Angmar to protect your father," he said, his voice gentle and proud. But rights she should not have remained unscathed, but Aragorn wondered if the gauntlets Hedda had left behind, the gauntlets dotted with white flowers that Eowyn had taken up and gifted by so long ago by Galadriel had more power in them than good smithing.

"You all survived as I said you would," she said, her face an expression of pure bliss, eyes shut at the glad news. She unclasped her hands from his wrist, stroking her fingertips over the band at his wrist once more, those horse hair knots still shining in the sunlight.

He raised her hand gently, bringing her knuckles to his lips and kissing the calloused skin of each knuckle and then just below the ring on her thumb, the familiar metal so much more suited to her hand than his own. He didn't let her go, his fingers knotting with her own. Near a moon had passed since he'd touched her, seen her, spoken with her, and he felt certain that to let her go now would be a cruelty. But a part of him knew their separation had been so long, and their parting so shaky and uncertain that perhaps she regretted her words in the stable.  _I love you_ , she had said, but she had been so unwilling to give him those words he longed for. Duty, family, demands all in their path were gone now, but perhaps without those walls there she still did not wish to offer them. The thought made his heart stammer, certain it would ruin him to hear it so he could not ask it yet.

"When Amsden came to the camp he said you were jailed, imprisoned," he said, his voice thick and he swallowed, seeing her eyes flick to the floor and her shoulders rise with a gentle sigh.

"I told him not to speak of it," she said, perching on the edge of the table and he sat beside her, his body tilted toward her. "An arrangement could not be made -" word of the assignment she'd sought here made his own shoulders tighten when he thought of Rohan, waiting on that hill for the beacons to light and tell him his heart was gone, bartered away for a truce. "I was foolish perhaps - impatient - but he had no intention of honouring an alliance. When I forced his hand…" she trailed off, a small, sardonic grin on her lips as she lifted her leg pointedly and let it fall. "Gondor does so love punishing their presumed lessers," she said, a shrug lifting her shoulders.

He moved, slipping to the floor, kneeling before her without thought. He looked up at her and found her expression open, a curve to her lips as he eased off her boots and rolled up the hem of her loose, rough hewn leggings. He ran the tips of his fingers slowly across the underside of her shin, his fingertips catching on fresh but healing wounds, still a harsh red as he smoothed his palm across them, cupping her limb a moment before standing. When he spoke his voice was cold, meeting her gaze with fire in his own. During their parting he'd had cause to hate the steward, just another of those barriers that had separated them, to hear how he'd harmed her, to see fresh scars on her skin made fury rage, unabated within him. "What was his fate?" He said, his teeth gritted and shoulders taut.

"Last reported he was screaming for his sons in the cell he locked me in. But I do not think he will have friends enough to liberate him while he awaits the kings judgment," She said, her palm coming up, the tips of her fingers stroking his jaw and the messy ends of his hair back as he moved closer, fitting his body between her legs until they were chest to chest. He leaned his face into her touch hungrily, taking every offering he could from her, her touch smoothing away the anger within him like water dousing a flame.

"Not the judgment of their queen?" He asked, a small smile quirking his lips as he watched her expression closely, one dark brow raised as she rolled her eyes.

"I deposed the  _steward_ , perhaps I can take his title but not that one," she smiled, her expression yet light, not refusing him his words the way she once had. "They have been waiting for you. As have I," she said, her voice catching on her last words, looking down as if she were embarrassed by the sentiment. She looked away, her eyes flickering to the raised throne behind them, a throne he'd hardly seen

"Every sunrise that came I only thought of riding here to find you," he said, his words intense, his eyes catching hers and holding them, preying she understood, praying she would accept his words as she hadn't before. Her shoulders lifted lightly, taking a breath as she began to speak

"Aragorn, what I said in the stable -" she didn't look away and his heart raced, feeling, at that moment, more fear in his heart than in the heat of battle until she continued. "I came here because it was right, I don't deny that. But in truth… riding to Gondor, to the fight here, even with all that happened, it was simpler than to imagine loving and being denied you." her palm slipped from his face, her thumb running along the column of his throat and catching on his unkempt stubble. "If duty or you -" he interrupted her, his palms coming to catch her face once more and bowing his head, catching her lips with his own. Her lips were ever soft, still a moment in surprise before meeting him, a gasp spilling from her lips as she returned the embrace. His body felt over warm, melting against her own and certain he'd not know the peace he felt under her touch in any other.

"I could  _never_  deny you. Nor would I allow anyone or anything to deny  _us_ ," he spoke, voice gentle as he brushed back those pale golden red locks and saw her cheeks lift. Her eyes shut languidly but her smile was brilliant. "Not when I love you so."

A laugh broke through her lips and he knew that he had never spoken a greater truth. "I love you," she breathed, and his heart sang. She had said it before, there in the stables with tears in her eyes and on a path divergent from his own. He had hoped, wished, dreamt to hear it said like it was a happy thing, not a chain on her or a thing to be cast off. "I would not leave your side again," she said, voice quiet as she leaned up, taking his lips like a promise, swallowing further thought of words he might have left.

A short knock rapped on the doors of the war room and she moved apart from him, slipping from the table gently, though her cheeks were still lifted with a smile and his own shoulders were too light for talk of war. She called for them to enter, her place in this city so established that when he pictured their future, a crown on his brow and one on hers - it did not seem difficult any longer. It seemed fated. She walked towards the door, opening it wide to see Gandalf, their fellowship and her cousins returned, servants carrying food and ale.

"Our duties are never done," she said in a low voice to him as they began clearing away the maps and scraps of paper to set a table for them to eat. They had duties, aye and they likely always would, but to share a duty with her was not so terrible a thing. 

But first, they deserved some peace, some food and fellowship. 

Their work was not yet done, but they had done enough for now.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made Theoden live and don't regret it. Aragorn's big healing moment is done through him, as Eowyn was protected from the witch kings poisons by the gauntlets Galadriel gave Hedda in Lothlorian.
> 
> Will be posting a short epilogue just to wrap up but then it's done!
> 
> Please let me know how you liked this reunion, it was so damn hard and I know you've been waiting on it. x


	38. Chapter 38

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _The sea waves are my evening gown_
> 
> _And the sun on my head is my crown_
> 
> _I made this queendom on my own_
> 
> _And all the mountains are my throne_
> 
>  
> 
> \- Queendom, Aurora

 

 

The white tree was blooming day by day. She stood tall beneath its bows, her eyes tracing those seemingly fragile branches, dotted with white flowers like stars and reached a hand up to touch the ancient wood, letting the pads of her fingertips linger. Half the city was rebuilding from the attack on its walls, crumbling stone removed and resculpted, but the tree had gone untouched through the war that had ravaged them. She was glad for it, glad to see the flowers that had been foretold long before she was born. In years passed she’d not thought much of flowers and fields, of growth and roots so deeply buried in the ground. Yet with Sauron’s tower crumbled, the ring destroyed and her fellowship once more within the same city - even with Boromir entombed - she thought the delicacy of growing things might hold some sway over her heart. 

 

She heard the gentle scuff of boots behind her and did not need to look to recognise them, letting her hand drop to her side as she turned to see the ranger king a few paces away. His grey eyes were upon the tree as well but only for a moment before they moved to meet her eye. 

 

“Seems a strange magic you have, Aragorn, to make a tree bloom,” she said, perhaps she’d meant it as a joke, but honesty beat away any chance of that. He moved closer to stand by her side, the two of them facing the tree as he answered. 

 

“The tree bloomed before my coming, you know that, as half the city knows it,” he returned, a wry smile on his lips at her jape that she was glad for. The tree had held her interest just moments before, but with him beside her, she found old wood and delicate flowers difficult to compare to him, wrapped in finery more comfortable than a king should rightly wear, his dark hair clean and bound back from his face. His own eyes were not on the tree, tracing the clothing she’d grown accustomed to in Rohan - the hardy velvet, the soft leathers of her uniform. He likely did not miss the Drutdeor’s mark, intertwined with the stars on Gondor picked in silver at her wrists, two marks she rarely went without in the weeks since Sauron’s tower fell. 

 

“Either way, it will be in full bloom by your coronation, at least Gandalf says so when he can be prised away from his hobbits,” she shrugged off his words but they didn’t bother her in truth. She’d not forgotten the day whispers of the white flowers started, she knew in her heart that the first blossom had begun a blaze in the people before the Beacons had lit and called their king. She straightened her shoulders to think of it, the gentle smile not falling from her lips as she looked beyond the white branches - out beyond to the shadowy land that had haunted the white city too long. 

 

“Shaka means to stay in the city with the healers, seems they’re pleased with her work and wants to settle a while, I invited her as my guest to the ceremony,” she stated when he didn’t answer. He seemed lost in thought, as he often was when talk turned to that of the coming day. His armour was being forged, his crown cast and grand, and though he was ready and beloved, a heaviness still sat upon him when it was spoken of. It was as if he was running out of time. 

 

“And the rest of your drutdeor?” He asked, his voice less weighted to think of her motley band, scattered to the four winds as they were. Though they might have broken with no war to fight, the sigil was still scattered amongst their shields and clothes, a thing not to be easily forgotten. 

 

“Most are returning to the inns and taverns they liked before the war - I would ask little else of them. Kottr means to stay though - I put her in touch with the spy masters in the city and they seem enamoured with her. Seems she’ll talk when secrets are what she can steal. But I think a coronation would be asking a little much of her,” she chuckled to herself, feeling Aragorn shake with amusement beside her. He was quiet a long moment

 

“Hedda,” he said, voice as gentle as the breeze around them and she turned back to him again, head tilted and heart light. She followed his movement as he reached up, his left hand with that gleaming braid still knotted at his wrist as he reached up to graze the branches of the white tree and pluck a bloom from it’s branches. He rolled the thin stem between his bruised fingertips a moment, looking at the small spray of petals and that looked so small, so simple between them. He seemed to be lost in thought, struggling to speak and she wrapped her fingertips around his wrist, taking his attention once more. 

 

“Before the last battle you said you would stay beside me,” he said suddenly, his voice a rolling timbre that made her melt closer yet against him, her thumb tracing the delicate tendons of his inner wrist as he spoke. “I would have nothing else, but I would not do as Denathor and your father once did,” he said, but she could hear how far away his voice sounded as he spoke, how saddened but strong he was as he offered his words. “This is a life I have accepted, a crown I must hold and one I’d give to you, but this is not the life you wanted.” She swallowed, a gentle exhale on her lips as she laid her forehead against his own. She could feel the metal ring that yet sat upon her thumb, the snake with it’s emerald eyes surely winking in the afternoon sun. Once she’d had care not to imagine what it could mean, but since his return, she had been certain. The whispers that surrounded them in the days since Frodo awoke, the mutters as she left his quarters or merely moved her own belongings to that room, the touches they couldn’t deny one another in halls not as private as they wished. He folded the delicate bloom into her hand and she held it with a touch more gentle than her calloused hands were used to - but she was growing better at being gentle when she must. 

 

“I’ve had a great many things I have wanted in my life,” she mused, her words as quiet as his. “To master the sword and see the world, to defy my kings,” she said, a smile on her lips that showed her teeth and he met it, looking at her like the idea amused him. “None brought me the same happiness you did,” she looked up at him, her expression clearer and steadier than she was quite used to. “When I said I would stand beside you, I would do it in life, in battle and in this.” Her voice was as gentle as his.This was not an agreement made, a trade or an arrangement. Their’s was a promise and a connection more binding than horsehair or metal, and it did not feel like a chain or a pen. 

 

His smile was radiant, so wide it made her cheeks gently flush and her own cheeks lift. His hands went to her waist, pulling her closer so desperately it brought a laugh to her lips. It felt simple, as natural as breathing or as inevitable as the blooming of a tree to wrap her arms around him and kiss his lips, the vow made before the white tree as binding as any wedding ceremony she had ever seen. 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So obviously they get married, they have four children and live very happily. Hedda still fights, training an elite queens guard that’s the envy of the kingdom, as Aragorn takes the name Elessar upon his coronation Hedda obviously takes Thandris. Her sword was broken in the battle when Eowyn stabbed the witch king in the face, but she has a new one forged and a great many other swords revive the old ‘woman’ symbol of Rohan.
> 
>  
> 
> This epilogue has taken so long because honestly I just wanted to get the ending perfect and I kept writing it in different places from different perspectives, at different times but anyway - here it is. So glad to have this finished and up for you guys, please let me know what you think this fit’s taken about ten months to complete lol (at the very beginning can you seriously believe I thought I’d be done in two because I sure did).

**Author's Note:**

> I read that 'In some earlier drafts of the story, Elfhild, wife of Theoden and mother of Theodred also had a daughter, Idis, before she died, but the girl was soon removed after her character was eclipsed by that of Eowyn' and then this happened. Is also posted on FF.net under all the same titles. Would love feedback, positive or negative x


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